


The Bond of Blood

by themanbeneaththehat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Vampire John, Vampire Sherlock, Vampire Turning, Vampires drink tea right?, With a lot of blood in the mix..., oops how about a little more angst while we're at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themanbeneaththehat/pseuds/themanbeneaththehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after being forced to leave London, Sherlock, a vampire, returns for a few days just to watch John, to be reminded of how human the man had made him feel. However, John gets shot while Sherlock is tailing him and Sherlock does the only thing he can think of to save the man's life. He turns him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You have to leave, Sherlock. You’ve already stayed too long.”

“I can’t, not yet. I can’t just leave. I can’t leave John, Mycroft. Especially not with Moriarty still out there."

Mycroft sighed, knowing that his brother’s stubbornness was matched only by his and that there would be no swaying him until he was able to see and understand the reason behind his needing to leave.

“Sherlock, you have already been here for a few years. Very soon people will notice that you have not been aging and then there will be questions. There is only so much I can cover up.”

“Then why don’t you have to leave?” Sherlock countered, angrily. “You’ve been here just as long as I have.”

“Few people see me. Outside of those working in this office, John really is the only one who even knows what I look like. But I haven’t spent any amount of significant time around the man, let alone have been living with him. He knows your face far better than he knows mine. He won’t catch on to me for quite some time yet. I have some more time available here. And regardless, I do not think he will want to see much of me once you leave.”

Sherlock finally lost his temper with his brother. “I’m not leaving, Mycroft! I won’t leave him!”

“You’re aren’t human, Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted, finally losing his temper. “You need to stop playing human with John and move on. You may return to London in a few decades, I know how much you love the city. But until then, you have to stay away. This isn’t up for a discussion. It is final.”

“This isn’t about me loving the damned city, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. “And what? You say I can come back in a few decades? Once John is dead? Come back to what? Two hundred years and he is the first and only human that I have ever connected to. I cannot just throw that away to follow this arbitrary protocol that you have created. I will not do it.”

Mycroft had regained some of his composure, though he was still a little riled by Sherlock’s lack of cooperation. “It is not arbitrary. You know why the system is in place. The Vampire Council has set up this system to protect our kind. We cannot let the human world know about us. Humans are too protective of themselves. They would start hunting us down immediately upon our discovery. What are you going to say to John in a few years time when he finally notices that you haven’t aged a day since the two of you met?”

“He’s not that perceptive, Mycroft,” Sherlock scoffed. “I could surely stay for a few more years at least before he starts to wonder.”

“He’s more observant than you like to give him credit for, and he’s not going to miss that one. He will notice and he will ask questions, and it will happen soon. You have to leave, Sherlock.”

“I can’t just leave John like this, with no explanation and no protection from Moriarty.” He knew it had been time for him to leave for quite some time now. He had already been pushing his luck before John even limped into his life. That impossible man who had begun to teach him how to be human again, who had coaxed what shreds of his humanity that had remained inside of him and taught him how to live and socialize with others and laugh, but not at anyone’s expense. “If I leave it will kill him, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a knowing look, as though he could hear exactly what Sherlock was thinking.

“Let Moriarty finish his games. Let him win.”

“But -“

“If he wins, he will leave John alone. His games are for you alone, Sherlock. If you are gone, he will have no use for toying with John anymore. He will be safe, I can assure you that. I will see to it personally.”

Sherlock visibly shrank. His shoulders slumped and his voice quivered in a betrayal of the emotions he was feeling. “I still can’t just leave him like this. He’s… important to me.”

Mycroft let out a regretful sigh and chose his words carefully. “If he is that important to you, you know that you must do everything you can to protect him. There is one thing you could do, if you’re going to let Moriarty win at this game of his.”

“I know,” replied Sherlock, knowing exactly what his brother was about to suggest. “I should let him kill me. It’s the only way to assure John’s safety and to know that John won’t come after me.”

“I am sorry, Sherlock. Truly.” Mycroft gave his brother a kind, apologetic look. Sherlock heard the sincerity in his voice, but knew that while Mycroft may be sorry, he did not understand. He had never tried to live a more human life. Not that Sherlock had intended to attempt to live one. John Watson had simply begun as an experiment. He had wanted a flatshare to see if it was possible for a vampire to live with a human without it ending… poorly. Just another one of his experiments. Nothing more. He had only wanted data. Nothing was supposed to come from it. Only results.

He did not expect to have his life be changed by what should have been a boring, unassuming man. But, despite his resistance, Sherlock had suddenly begun seeking John’s approval in many matters, was unhappy when he disappointed the human, and thrilled when John praised his deductions. And now he had to walk away from this man who had shown him everything he had forgotten about what it was to be human.

Sherlock left his brother’s office with sorrow and regret for what he needed to do hanging over his head. If his death would be the only thing to prevent John from going after him and to keep John safe from Moriarty, then he would have to die.

***

He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t go through with it. There had to be another way. There would never be another John. He could not give him up. He would not do it.

***

_Goodbye, John._

***

Back in Mycroft’s pompously decorated office, Sherlock sat still as a statue, gazing blankly out of the window, an untouched cup of tea growing cold on the table beside him.

“It was the right thing to do, Sherlock,” Mycroft muttered, laying a hand of comfort on his little brother’s shoulder. “I will make the necessary arrangements for you to be relocated. Anywhere in particular you would like to live this time?”

The fall off of St. Bart’s rooftop had hurt, but those wounds would heal rapidly. Mere flesh wounds. The real hurt had come from when he was forced to lie there on the pavement pretending to be dead, having to hear John call out for him, for his friend, checking his pulse, refusing to believe the sight he had just witnessed.

“Don’t bother,” he snapped. He abruptly rose from his chair, buttoning his long coat and swept past his brother without another word.

He knew that this wasn’t going to break John, that he was was strong enough to get through this, but that it was going to take time and that John would be in a tremendous amount of emotional pain. Sherlock was only just in touch with whatever small amount of humanity was left in him and he knew that the reverse of what had happened, seeing John lying dead on the pavement, would have destroyed him. He did not know how John, perfect and human and emotional John, would get through this, but he knew that he would. John was not an easily broken man.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Three years to the day, Sherlock watched from a distance as John Watson trudged along the path through the cemetery with a visibly heavy heart. He could see the sorrow in the other man’s walk, noticing a very slight limp as he neared the grave he sought. He wasn’t walking with the cane, Sherlock gratefully noted, but he didn’t think that the day he would use it again was very far off. Sherlock had known that watching his fall would cause John pain, but he did not realize that it would manifest in a physical way. John was walking stiffly, his leg an obvious bother. Sherlock presumed he was not using the cane out of pure stubbornness, a blatant refusal to give in to the limp again when he knew it shouldn’t be there in the first place despite the pain it caused him.

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t be here. Mycroft and the rest of the Council would be furious that he was taking a risk like this. But now that he had seen John he knew that he would not be able to leave again so easily. Three years without the man who had so changed the vampire’s life.

John finally reached the empty grave marked with Sherlock’s name. The vampire was wracked with guilt as he saw John wipe tears away from his eyes, obvious what he was doing even from the distance Sherlock was watching. Sherlock didn’t know what he had thought John was doing at the graveyard, but he did not suppose that it was going to be such active mourning. He knew that John was a very loyal man, so maybe he thought the soldier was visiting the grave for that reason alone. But as he watched the man sink to the ground, resting his back against the cold, black headstone, and lower his head so that his chin nearly touched his chest, Sherlock knew that John was still in mourning for a man who was not actually dead. Sherlock’s no longer beating heart sank at this realization. His death had effected the human far more than he had suspected at the beginning.

After an hour, John finally stirred, stiffly rising from the ground. He gently touched the headstone one more time, muttering something Sherlock wished he had been able to hear, before turning and walking back through the headstones to the path.

John’s next stop was the surgery where Sherlock assumed he had been working since he was no longer assistant to the world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock couldn’t easily trail him in there so he had to settle for staying outside of the building, waiting for John to reappear. Sherlock thought he was going to lose his mind and silently cursed the human’s need for a paycheck. It was late when John finally trudged out of the building towards the nearest underground.

Sherlock was wondering if John ever did anything exciting with his life anymore. It was hard to him to imagine John ever being happy with living so simply day to day. Wake up, eat, work, come home, eat, sleep. The John Watson that Sherlock knew would never settle for that life. He was a man of action and here Sherlock saw a man of inaction.

***

  
John had a date. Sherlock rolled his eyes when he realized he had been tailing John through London only to discover that he was meeting some inevitably dull woman. John did not seem too excited about the evening either as he limped heavily through the streets to the restaurant he had agreed to meet her at. Sherlock contemplated leaving for awhile, going off to find something that would stimulate his mind, but it had been so long since he had seen John that he decided that leaving would be too hard to do. Also, judging from the way that John had been acting on the walk over, Sherlock assumed the man wouldn’t want to stay very long. Long enough to be polite and pay for her meal, but he would likely cut it as short as he could.

Sherlock sat at a café, sipping tea that the barista had let steep for 30 seconds too long, eyeing John and his date through the window of the restaurant opposite. The date seemed to be going well from what Sherlock could tell. It was a first date but John had a confidence in how he was presenting himself, vastly different from the person Sherlock had seen that morning at the graveyard. The woman appeared to be genuinely interested in what he was saying, laughing, showing off a bright smile that lit up the room. She was making John happy.

Sherlock was pleased for John on some level. It was nice to see the man enjoying himself, especially after what he had seen earlier in the day. But even so, there was a part of Sherlock that resented this woman. Sherlock wished that he was still the one who was allowed to make John happy and laugh and be confident in himself again. That was Sherlock’s job, not anyone else’s. But it really wasn’t Sherlock’s job anymore, he thought bitterly. He had left. He had abandoned John.

When the couple finally finished their meal, Sherlock followed them as John walked her home. They took their time, leisurely walking through the streets before finally coming upon her flat. They walked up to the door of the building, exchanged a few words that Sherlock could not hear from the other side of the street, and then shared a chaste kiss. They pulled apart, both grinning happily, and then she finally slipped inside her door.

John looked triumphant as he walked away from her door and down the street. His limp had lessened gradually throughout the night, Sherlock had noted. John was so wrapped up in his own happy little world that he barely thought about where he was walking. When he finally came back to the earth, John had walked over a mile in the wrong direction. Sherlock smirked as he all but heard John roll his eyes at himself before turning around again, looking for street signs to get his bearings.

John turned into an alley as a shortcut, cutting through the streets in a much more timely fashion, walking through alley after alley and Sherlock tailed behind him at a distance. He had so missed walking the streets of London with John that he was starting to lose himself in the action, just as John had done after he had left his date’s doorstep. He closed his eyes, trusting his other senses and his memory to keep him following John on the correct path when suddenly he could no longer hear John’s footsteps ahead of him. He opened his eyes and cast them quickly about to see where they were exactly. Another narrow alleyway not far from Angelo’s, Sherlock noticed. He could see John roughly seven meters ahead of him, another figure blocking his way. The other man had a gun in his hand, the other outstretched waiting for John to place something in it, his wallet no doubt. The soldier, however, had reappeared, and John was holding his ground, refusing to give in to the mugger. Sherlock was cloaked by the dark shadows of the alley so neither man could see him standing behind them, watching the scene unfold.

Suddenly John lunged at the man, grappling for his gun. The other man was quicker though and started running out of the alley. No doubt, he had suspected the simple looking man with a limp to not put up any sort of fight, and now he had the fearsome John Watson running after him, determined to apprehend the criminal. Sherlock could barely hold himself back from helping his dear friend, but he could not risk John seeing him. John could obviously take care of this incompetent man himself.

A shot rang out, the sound echoing loudly off the walls of the narrow alleyway. John had stopped running. Sherlock didn’t understand why John had stopped running. He should keep chasing the man. Why had he stopped? John took a step forward and staggered. His feet did not seem to be within his control. His hands raised to rest on his stomach. Sherlock didn’t understand but then the thick smell of blood finally hit his nose. John tried to take another step but his knees gave out beneath him and he fell, hitting the pavement hard. He laid there, hardly moving at all, as his life seeped out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave comments and I will love you forever.
> 
> I'll try to update this once a week at least. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit longer of a chapter for you all! I just couldn't stop writing this one - it was such a joy!

Sherlock raced down the alleyway as quickly as he could. John was still conscious, but barely. He was having trouble focusing his eyes and there was blood bubbling up from his stomach into his throat and out of his mouth. His hands were trying to apply pressure to the wound in his belly, but his arms were too weak from the loss of blood. Sherlock’s eyes darted all around John’s body, trying to figure out a way to save him. The think metallic smell of the blood was clouding his senses as his instincts fought to take control of the situation. Sherlock came to his senses again and pressed his own hands to the wound in his dear friend’s stomach. The blood was coming out too quickly. Sherlock could smell death on him. 

John blinked his eyes a few times before they finally focused on the man looming over him. He looked so confused. He could not believe that Sherlock was there over him.

“Sher —“ John started but was interrupted by his own coughing, blood spurting from his mouth.

“Shh,” whispered Sherlock, tears welling in his eyes. “Don’t try to speak.” There was nothing Sherlock could do to save John. He was dying. His only friend in the world was dying and Sherlock could not bear it. It would absolutely destroy him. He would not be able to bear the hurt so he decided to do a very selfish thing. 

John was still looking up at him, hurt and confusion at his friends sudden reappearance reflecting in his eyes. His skin was so pale and starting to turn cold as his blood escaped his body. His eyes were no longer focused properly. Sherlock lifted one of his hands, wet with John’s blood, and rested it on John’s cheek, trying to focus him one more time. John’s eyelids were starting to droop.

“John, I’m sorry,” whispered Sherlock, his voice wracked with emotions. “Please, just trust me one more time.” He pressed a gentle kiss to John’s temple, inhaling his perfectly human scent before it was gone forever. He looked at John’s face one last time, his brow creased with worry. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered one last time before sinking his teeth into the soft skin on John’s neck. 

Sherlock had never tasted anything so wonderful in all of his two hundred years. The warm liquid in his mouth made his head swim. To think that in all of the years Sherlock had lived with him he had been missing out on this. Sherlock felt like he was floating, the euphoria from John’s blood making him almost feel high. He could feel John’s slow pulse, his own heart coming to life, beginning to beat in time to match the rhythm from the human’s own heart. John had already lost too much blood, Sherlock couldn’t afford to take any more than he already had. He was just on the cusp of life and death, just where he needed to be. Sherlock reluctantly pulled his mouth away from John’s neck. 

His friend was completely still now. If Sherlock did not know that the man’s heart was still struggling to beat on, he would have said he was dead. Sherlock lifted his own wrist to his mouth and bit hard into the veins, spilling his own blood into his mouth, erasing the delicious taste of John Watson. He pressed his wrist briefly to the wound on John’s neck, allowing their blood to mix. Sherlock’s blood would soon be attacking the small amount of human blood still left in John, destroying it while simultaneously transforming it, strengthening it, healing it.  
After a few minutes Sherlock could vaguely hear sirens in the distance, no doubt heading in their direction. He had to get them out of there. He felt for John's pulse in his neck but found nothing. He had died. He wasn't sure if enough of his blood and transferred to John's body, but he would have to hope that it would do. He needed John to survive this.

He zipped up the now dead man's coat to hide the blood soaked into his shirt. He ripped a strip from his own shirt and tied it around John's neck in an attempt to conceal the wound there. It was a poor attempt, but he hoped it would do. Baker Street was not far off and if he stuck to the shadows there shouldn't be any issue. He hauled John up and slung the man's limp arm around his own shoulder. If they did run into anyone he could claim that John had just drank too much and had passed out. Humans were notoriously unobservant so they wouldn't suspect anything. He dragged John through the alleyway and out onto the street before dashing into another alley. He repeated the process until he reached Baker Street. He gently set John down on the steps to 221 so it looked as though he was seated there, waiting for Sherlock to unlock the door, and then set about picking the lock. He scooped John up into his arms and headed for the door to 221C.

It would be roughly 24 hours before John woke, if he woke at all. Sherlock had never turned anyone before. The bond formed between the two people involved was too great for him to ever want to bother with it. He had never met a human worthy of bonding himself with until he met John. But then he had so enjoyed the quirks of human John that he had decided he could never turn John into an animal like him. He had never wanted to destroy that perfect humanity in him and tonight he had done just that.

He was not sure how much John would change with the transformation, or if he would at all. Sherlock had hardly changed when he was turned, but there had definitely been a surge of animalistic nature in him from the beginning. It had taken him nine years to learn to suppress that, but he had seen others take decades and even then it was barely controlled at best. He would of course teach John how to control his hunger and how to feed without killing, but it would take time. Though now they had all the time in the world.

Sherlock went upstairs to his old home in search of a change of clothes for John to have when he woke so he didn't have to stay in the blood soaked shirt longer than necessary. He climbed the stairs to John's room but found it empty. He surveyed the whole room and found that it looked as though it has been years since anyone had stepped foot in the room, let alone lived in it. Perhaps he had moved into Sherlock’s old room. It was closer to the sitting room and kitchen after all. It only made sense. Upon inspection though, Sherlock’s room was just as unused. The whole flat was. John had apparently moved out of the flat long ago. Sherlock’s heart broke a little at this realization. He had never really expected John to leave Baker Street. Mycroft had promised to pay for the flat after Sherlock had died, but apparently John had turned him down. Mycroft had failed to mention this. 

No new tenant told Sherlock that Mycroft had continued to pay for the flat regardless, however, which was good considering the current circumstances. Privacy would be necessary for when John woke. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t in the flat and he did not relish in the idea of telling her he was actually alive. She would fuss and make food and brew tea and incessantly prattle on about all of the unimportant gossip he had missed in the last three years. Then John would wake up and mindlessly eat her when his instincts took over. He could only hope that he would be able to rush her off to her sister’s for a couple of weeks while he settled the situation with John.

Sherlock returned to Mrs. Hudson's flat and rifled through her linen cupboard, pulling out the thickest blankets he could find. He went back down to 221C and laid the blankets in the corner and then moved to John to remove the man’s jacket. He debated removing his bloodstained shirt, thinking it would shock John when he finally woke, but since he didn’t have a replacement he decided against it. John might be feeling vulnerable enough as it was without having to add a lack of shirt to the mix. He put John on top of the blankets, cushioning his body from the hard floor. John's body was still pliable as rigor mortis had not set in — a good sign that John's body had accepted Sherlock's blood.  He then settled beside John's cold corpse and waited for him to wake up.  

***

Mycroft stopped by a few hours later. Sherlock was surprised it had taken him so long to intrude. His brother stepped into the dank space of 221C and surveyed the scene before him.

"Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock tried to sneer the words, but his heart wasn't in it. But Sherlock was too concerned about John to be properly aggressive towards his brother. He expected Mycroft to come in here, furious for what had happened so he tried to steel himself against the vampire. 

But the fury never came. Mycroft was carrying a small duffle bag which he set beside Sherlock. "Some clothes for both of you.” Mycroft seemed very calm, which surprised Sherlock. He had expected him to shout about protocols and how he expected more of Sherlock. But he remained very quiet as Sherlock unbuttoned his torn shirt and replaced it with one from the bag. His own shirt he realized. He looked into the bag again and saw that John’s clothes were in there too. Not replacements, but clothes that already belonged to the dead man. 

“He’s not living here anymore.” Sherlock hated stating the obvious but he did not know what else to say.

“No, he’s not,” Mycroft responded. “He has a small flat near the hospital. He moved out a year after you left.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Sherlock.”

Sherlock did know why. It was not hard to deduce. John had been unable to cope living in 221B after Sherlock’s death. He needed a fresh start, to remove himself from his life that had died when Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart’s, to try and heal his broken heart. But after what Sherlock had witnessed that morning at the graveyard, it had not done as much good as the doctor had probably hoped.

“I’ve had people take Mrs. Hudson away for the month. She’s staying with family in the country.” Sherlock’s hopes had been answered. It would be much easier to help John transition without him trying to kill their former landlady. 

“Thank you,” replied Sherlock quietly. He was thankful to his brother not only for taking care of Mrs. Hudson, but for not shouting at him for what had happened. Mycroft had understood why Sherlock did what he had done. He knew that John meant everything to Sherlock. 

The room was quiet for a few minutes, neither man entirely sure what to say. Finally, Mycroft glanced at John one more time before moving towards the door. He opened it and then said over his shoulder, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sherlock.”

“So do I,” Sherlock muttered. With that, Mycroft left, leaving Sherlock alone with the corpse of his only friend once again. 

***

Sherlock never left John’s side for the rest of the wait. He was still as a statue sitting on the ground next to the makeshift cot he had created for his friend. His internal clock told him when the twenty-four hour point that marked when Sherlock had mingled their blood together had passed. It wouldn’t be much longer now. 

Twenty-six hours after he had died, John slowly opened his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahhhh John's a vampire now! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'll try to get the next chapter up tomorrow or the next day. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST ANGST ANGST
> 
> Sorry.

Sherlock sensed it the moment John started to wake. It was slow at first. Just a mere stirring of his eyelids. John’s eyebrows knit together to form a slight frown as his muscles began to awaken and work again after begin dead for so long. Finally his eyes started to open. He blinked them a few times, trying to focus them and take in his surroundings. He tilted his head to the side to try and figure out where he was. He couldn’t seem to figure it out.

Sherlock had fled to the far corner of the room when John had begun to stir. He wanted to give the man some space in the first few moments of his new life. He would soon be overwhelmed when he remembered that he had seen his friend alive again, so Sherlock decided to at least give him a few moments reprieve before bombarding him with the news. Finally, John started to sit up, glancing down in confusion at the blankets he was lying on. When he looked down he saw his blood stained shirt. Sherlock had forgotten to change it for him after Mycroft’s visit, too wrapped up in his own guilt to remember. This just added to Sherlock’s guilt. John breath sped up as he started to panic. The memories of the previous night were no doubt flooding back to the forefront of his mind. Sherlock watched as John scrambled to lift his shirt, doubtlessly expected a bullet hole to be marring the soft flesh of his stomach, but found nothing there except an angry red and purple bruise. Sherlock had removed the bullet soon after arriving at 221C which allowed the wound to begin healing while his blood was still running rampant through John’s veins, simultaneously destroying and healing. It would soon heal all the way, but not enough time had passed. Sherlock was thankful that at least the hole had closed by now. 

John started to look around the room, still unable to grasp where he was, until his eyes finally rested on Sherlock crouching in the corner watching John’s every move. John looked frightened. Sherlock had not expected that. He had expected anger or sadness or happiness but never fear. 

“You— you,” John stammered, trying hard to speak but unable to form his thoughts into sentences.

“John, it’s alright,” Sherlock soothed, raising his hands, palms facing John, in a passive gesture. John flinched at the movement but did not try to flee the room.

“How am I still alive?” John’s voice was wavering with all of the emotions he was feeling. Residual humanity still clinging on. Sherlock could only vaguely remember his own transition, but he remembered that it had been an emotional process for the first day or so. It would wear off soon and John might no longer be John.

“John —“

John interrupted him, “How are _you_ still alive? I watched you—” his voice broke, he was unable to finish the sentence. 

“John I have to tell you something.”

“You’re bloody right you have to tell me something. What’s going on? Where am I?”

Finally an easy question to answer. “You’re at Baker Street. 221C to be precise. It was the only place I could think of to bring you. We have our privacy here. Mrs. Hudson is away in the country for awhile.”

“Why didn’t you just take me home? I don’t live here anymore. I couldn’t. Not after—” John’s voice was shaking. He rose to his feet, a little unsteady, but unwilling to have this conversation while lying in a corner. Sherlock followed suit and rose from his crouching position, though he remained in the corner to give John space. 

“I wasn’t aware at the time. Even if I had I would have taken you here.”

“Why?” 

“It’s not safe for you to be around humans right now.”

“Hu— humans? Why do you say it like that?”

“Because that is what they are. And what we are not.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “‘What we are not’? What does that even mean, Sherlock?” His voice had an edge of desperation to it as he tried to understand what Sherlock was telling him but unable to grasp at the answers. His eyes were darting around the room but always came back to rest on Sherlock.

“It means that I am not human. And now neither are you. It was the only thing I could do to prevent you from dying. You had been shot and I didn’t know what else to do, John. I had no choice, you would have died. I couldn’t let you die.” Sherlock’s voice was strained and a touch frantic. He hated that they had to have this conversation. It was one Sherlock had hoped they would never have to have.

“Not human,” John murmured to himself. He did not seem to be able to understand what was going on. He was no longer looking at Sherlock but down at his own shirt. His fingers were tracing the bruise on his stomach over the fabric where the bullet had pierced the flesh. John became very still, his eyes distant as he tried to wrap his head around what exactly was happening.

"I need a new shirt" he said, his voice sounding very distant. Sherlock gestured to the bag beside the blankets. John pulled out a shirt, not acting even remotely surprised that it was his own. He unbuttoned the ruined shirt and quickly pulled on the clean one. Sherlock could see him trying to process the information Sherlock had given him as he folded his ruined shirt and placed it on the blankets. 

“How are you still alive?” he asked again, eyes snapping to Sherlock’s face once more.

“I told you, John.” Sherlock looked away. “I’m not human.”

“That bullshit isn’t exactly an explanation,” John countered, fed up with what he thought was Sherlock being cryptic when it was really just him being honest.

“It is an explanation. You watched me fall that day. You saw as I jumped off that building and you saw how my body was broken on the pavement. And yet here I stand before you, as well as the day I met you.”

“What— what are you then?”

“‘What are we?’” Sherlock quietly corrected.

John hesitated before asking, “What are we?”

Sherlock looked at the ground for a moment. Unsure of how exactly to breach the subject. He smirked, though it was halfhearted, their old companionship had dissolved the moment Sherlock had stepped off that building three years ago. “You’re going to laugh.” Humor might work if he could muster up the will to execute it properly. Maybe it will at least soften the blow. John just waited without responding. The man didn't want any more beating around the bush and he was definitely not interested in having a laugh with his old friend. Sherlock supposed that this was not the correct situation to try and make the man laugh. He took the plunge. No sense in trying to put it off any longer. “Vampires.”

“You’re kidding me,” scoffed John, his face a mixture disbelief and frustration.

“Not at all.” Of course John didn’t believe him. Who would? He certainly didn’t when he had encountered his first vampire. Hardly believed it when his own brother became one and then, in turn, turned Sherlock into one. Then the hunger came and he realized it wasn’t a game after all. “How else would you explain that you are standing there, your body healing itself as we speak, after being shot one day ago? You know that something isn’t right here, John. There is only one explanation.”

John’s anger was flaring up once again. “Fucking hell, Sherlock. After three years, after making me watch you die, after making me mourn for you, you could at least have the decency to tell me the goddamn truth!” he shouted, fists clenched. If he had been standing closer, Sherlock was sure the man would punch him. He needed to show John what he was, what they both were, and there was only one way he could think of.

He lifted the wrist he had bit through last night, now fully healed, and tore through the skin once again with his own teeth. John visibly tensed as the smell of blood began to fill the room. Sherlock offered his wrist to John who was slowly starting to creep forward, closing the wide distance between them.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's voice wavered.

"Try it," offered Sherlock.

"What do you mean 'try it'?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Your instincts are telling you what to do. Listen to them." John took Sherlock's wrist in his hands, examining the wound, dumbstruck by what was happening, and by what he knew was about to happen. His body was thrumming with anticipation and fear. He looked up at Sherlock and kept his eyes fixed on him as he slowly raised Sherlock's wrist to his mouth.

John's eyes snapped closed as soon as Sherlock's blood touched his lips. He latched on hard, shoving Sherlock back against the wall, roughly pinning him there with his other arm and his body while still attached to his wrist. He suddenly detached himself from Sherlock's wrist and moved in and bit the flesh of Sherlock's neck, the flow from the wrist not steady enough for the new vampire's liking.

Sherlock slowly lifted his arms and wrapped them around John's frame, encircling him in an embrace while John continued to drink. Tears were once again welling in Sherlock's eyes at his friend's transformation. He had done this to John. Perfect, human John. He was gone, replaced with this John currently latched to his neck, unable to control himself.

Sherlock unwrapped limbs from John after several moments and started to push him away, but it only made the man grip on tighter, unwilling to be parted from Sherlock's blood. Sherlock wrapped a strong hand around John's neck and yanked him off. John practically growled at the forced movement and tried to force himself back on Sherlock. But Sherlock kept his grip as he roughly guided John to the other corner where a floor length mirror was standing. He forced John to look at himself. John froze as he saw his reflection, saw his mouth bloody, short fangs protruding from his canine teeth, his pupils blown wide, his irises nearly black from the bloodlust. Sherlock knew this was a harsh way of telling John what he now was, but he needed him to understand as soon as possible. The sooner he understood, the sooner he could begin learning to control it.

With John no longer struggling against his grip, Sherlock finally released him and began to speak calmly to John, trying to relax the heated situation. “Look at yourself. Look at what you are. You know I'm telling the truth," Sherlock coaxed. "This isn't a time for lies. You can see it. You can feel it." John's eyes darted between his own face and Sherlock's reflected in the mirror. There was a mix of emotions splayed over John's face. Anger, horror, sadness.

"What have you done to me?" John questioned the Sherlock in the mirror. His voice was so quiet Sherlock could barely hear it. He didn't know what to say. John turned around, wrenching out if Sherlock's grasp. "What have you done to me?" he bellowed. His fist connected with Sherlock's cheek his fists continued to fly, connecting with Sherlock's face each time, even after he had fallen to his knees from the impact of the blows. John continued to shout "What have you done to me?" over and over. Tears were falling freely from both men's eyes. All Sherlock could say was "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over just as John was doing.

Sherlock's body was starting to weaken from the relentless, merciless blows that John was letting out, but he couldn't stop him. He deserved this for what he had done. He had been selfish to make this decision for John. He had been weak and now he had to suffer the consequences for it. His vision was clouding as his body and mind sought to block out the attack it was suffering from. He was limp on his knees, only held up by the fist John was gripping his shirt with while the other continued to land hard across his face.

Sherlock had often fantasized about what John would have done if Sherlock had ever reappeared again, back from the dead, ready to whisk John off on more adventures. He had imagined John hitting him once, maybe twice, and then pulling the taller man in his arms to embrace him in a long awaited hug. There would be tears, and laughter, and then more adventures. He never imagined the scenario that had actually happened. 

Eventually John stopped hitting Sherlock, shoving him to the ground to lie there at his John's feet. He was breathing hard, blood covered fists clenched at his sides, while Sherlock wept "John" from the floor. 

John moved to the door, leaving Sherlock lying bloody in the middle of the floor. “You should have let me die," John said with a quiet hatred. With one last glance at Sherlock, John tore out of 221 Baker Street before Sherlock could stop him and ventured out, a new and uncontrollable vampire, into the world of vulnerable humans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is ending up a lot sadder than originally planned. Rather, I always kind of planned it to be this way it's just sadder written down than I thought it was going to be. Anyway, I hope your hearts are breaking for these two. I know mine is. Thank you again for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had difficulties writing this chapter.... Don't know why. It just wasn't flowing as easily as the previous ones, hence why it took a little bit longer to get it up. I anticipate much of the same with the next one.... 
> 
> Anyway, I'm still really quite happy with how it turned out! I hope you enjoy it

John had no idea where he was supposed to go. He couldn’t go to his flat, to his work, to his favorite pub, anywhere. Sherlock, no doubt, would know his habits and would be able to locate him too easily if he went to any of those places. Friends’ places were out of the question. He didn’t really need to explain the situation to them when they asked what was wrong. Not that he would know how to. He needed some time away from everything to try and process what was happening to him. 

The cool night air felt blissful on his face, helping to clear his head fractionally, as he hastened through the streets, eager to put as much distance between himself and Baker Street as he could, as quickly as he could. He flexed his hands, clenching them into fists and then releasing them, over and over, trying to release the tension in them. It didn’t help. He looked down at them and saw traces of Sherlock’s blood on the underside of his fingers and palms. He froze, looking at the red marks staining his hands. He glanced at his reflection in a darkened storefront of a closed shop and saw that his mouth was smeared with blood as well. He hastily wiped it away as best he could. All his efforts to get it off his face, however, just made the mess worse on his hands. He didn’t know what to do. Wiping it off on his clothes would do him no good. He wished going home was an option, but no doubt Mycroft’s men were staking it out waiting for his return. He had one option really, and his skin began to buzz with anticipation. He ducked into an alley, hiding in the shadows, and carefully began to lick and suck the blood off his hands.

John had never tasted anything so singularly delicious in his entire life. Any horror or disgust he felt about what he was doing was quickly erased by the overwhelming sensation of bliss that washed over him at the first touch of blood to his lips. It was not the same as drinking directly from Sherlock, though it was still satisfying. But it just couldn’t compare with the sensation of sinking his teeth into flesh and having the blood pour out onto his lips, into his mouth. He wanted the body pressed up against him, held there with his teeth and his arms. John closed his eyes and leaned against the wall of the alley as he licked off the last drop of blood from his hands.

He needed more. Sherlock had not given him enough. He needed that sensation again. He had to have it again. But he could not go back to Sherlock. Not yet. The man had lied to him, betrayed him, and then turned him into this… monster. “Monster,” he whispered to himself in the shadows. The word felt foreign on his tongue. He had never thought to associate such a word with himself before. But now he could think of no other words that fit. He needed a pint. Of ale. Not blood, he tried to assure himself. 

He set off down the road again and ducked into the first pub he saw and quickly ordered himself a pint, settling down at the bar. The place was thrumming with people, enjoying their Saturday night. It was still early, yet, but everyone was feeling loose and happy and inviting from the alcohol running through their veins. He took a swig from his ale to try and calm his nerves, and nearly spat out the golden liquid. It tasted foul after the delicious taste of blood. He grit his teeth and tried again. Each mouthful was a little less terrible than the last as he grew accustomed to it. 

A young man, ten years John’s junior, slid onto the stool next to John. “Alright, mate?” he said, a smile on his face.

“Yeah,” replied John casually, not bothering to turn to look at the stranger talking to him. He did not to engage the man in any conversation. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts at the moment. At least as alone as he could be in a bar filled with strangers.

The man didn’t take the hint. “Can I buy you another?” he asked, nodding his head toward John’s nearly empty pint.

“No, you really don’t have to,” John replied, trying to stay polite.

“I don’t mind at all.” He signaled the bartender to get them two more pints. “It gives me an excuse to talk to you,” he said with a wink.

The man, Peter, continued to chat casually with John. John had tried not to engage him much in the beginning, but eventually found himself wrapped up in their conversation. Maybe he could do this after all. Being a vampire didn’t have to be the end of him. Sherlock had managed to lead a relatively normal life in the time that John had known him. He was a bit of a recluse, and eccentric didn’t even begin to cover it, but he had lived around humans without ripping them apart every time he came into contact with one. If Sherlock could do it, certainly John would be able to.

Then Peter slid his hand over John’s, and asked, “Want to get out of here?”

John stared at their hands. He turned his over and brushed his fingertips over Peter’s wrist, feeling his pulse. Feeling the blood coursing through his body. He stayed there, staring at their hands, feeling the man’s pulse, for what felt like hours, enthralled by the simple beat of Peter’s heart. Eventually Peter started to pull his hand away, thinking John was going to rebuff him, but John grabbed onto it, looked in the man’s eyes and said “Yes.”

***

They didn’t make it far. John refused to wait. Still holding onto Peter’s hand, he dragged him to the back of the pub towards the backdoor and out into the night air behind the building. Peter was on him the moment the door shut behind them. He pushed John up against the wall and crashed his mouth against John’s in a feverish kiss. Peter’s hands were everywhere, feeling every inch of John that he could. John kissed back with equal fervor, lifting his hands to unbutton the top few buttons of Peter’s shirt, running his hands along the freshly exposed skin, then reaching down to squeeze the man’s arse with one hand, the other running along his lightly stubbled jaw. Peter moaned in encouragement, fisting his hands into John’s shirt, pressing him further into the wall to meld their bodies together. Sensation was starting to overwhelm John. Everything was heated and frantic and hungry and John couldn’t stop. 

Then John was overtaken with a different kind of hunger in the midst of his ardor. Peter had moved his mouth down to kiss and bite and suck along John’s neck, giving John the perfect angle to see the pulse point in the man’s neck. Everything slowed for a moment as John focused on the neck right next to his face, the faint smell of blood flowing freely through the veins. He could see the veins throbbing there with every beat of Peter’s human heart. He couldn’t take it any longer. He needed it. 

With one hand on Peter’s waist, and the other on his shoulder, John flipped them around, Peter’s back thumping against the cold stone wall. Peter’s eyes were blown wide with lust. John’s with hunger. Peter stretched his neck out, an invitation for John to plant hot, wet kisses along it, but John had other ideas. Threading one hand into the man’s hair, John pressed his body flush against Peter’s and placed light, teasing kisses upon the proffered neck. Peter groaned with the anticipation, both pleased and annoyed with John’s teasing touch. John licked the man’s skin and savored the taste on his tongue. Peter’s arms wrapped around John’s waist, drawing him in closer. John felt his canine teeth extend slightly, sharpening into small points that would ease into the neck he continued to lave at with his tongue. John was no longer thinking about anything. All he could feel and see and smell was the blood. It was calling to him, his skin vibrating from the sheer want of it. With one last kiss on Peter’s neck, John bit.

Peter cried out as John’s teeth pierced his flesh. The man relinquished his grip on John’s waist in favor of John’s upper arms, trying to push him away. John practically growled at the man trying to get away from him. Peter’s struggling only made John grip harder, push harder, bite harder.

Peter’s blood was delicious. It had a different taste than that of Sherlock’s, doubtlessly because Peter was human where Sherlock was not. It was warm and thick and smooth. John was in heaven. He was startled when he felt his heart begin to beat. He hadn’t even realized that it wasn’t until he felt it kick to life again after he had started drinking. He could feel as their two hearts began to beat in sync with each other. It was intoxicating. Peter was trying to fight John off, giving cries of pain, but John held fast, molding their bodies together, pressing Peter harder against the wall to keep him from struggling. Peter’s strength was being siphoned from him, with each gulp John took. He wasn’t struggling anymore, unable to lift his arms to push at the vampire. 

Peter’s heart was beginning to slow, and John could feel his own following suit. He was desperate for it to continue, now that he realized his heart was hadn’t been beating. He wanted to hold onto the feeling for as long as he could. He needed more. He couldn’t let it stop beating again. He gripped harder at Peter’s limp body that was just barely struggling to stay alive. John could feel their two hearts beating slower and slower, his strong despite the slowness, Peter’s faint, only just there. John continued to drink, and lick at the wound in Peter’s neck, savoring each drop he stole from the man’s body. John had never felt more exhilarated in his entire life. Nothing could compare with this. Not the war, not running through the streets with Sherlock. His was in pure and utter ecstasy.

John only released him when he felt Peter’s heart stop beating altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Things got dark. Sounds like a lot of you weren't quite expecting that, but really. I had to.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Had some troubles with this one! I'll probably keep the updating down to every few days/once a week from here on out. It's getting a bit harder to write now!  
> Also, you'll notice I changed the number of chapters back to a question mark because I really have no idea how long it's going to be anymore.... It will go until it's done! Once I outline again I'll try and put a number back up, but until then it's a mystery!

John supposed he ought to have felt something. He had just taken a man’s life. But he didn’t. He couldn’t feel anything. Not remorse, no grief. Not even a lingering feeling of exhilaration at his first kill as a vampire. That had faded after Peter died, when the taste of the blood faded from his lips, and his heartbeat stopped drumming once more. He had done what his instincts had told him to do, just as Sherlock had instructed him before. _“Your instincts are telling you what to do. Listen to them.”_ There was nothing else to it. Just an emptiness. It was a little unnerving.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked down the busy street, shaking off the unsettling feeling of not being able to feel anything. It was nearing 11 pm, and the nightlife of London was in full swing in this part of town. Couples walking arm in arm, university students stumbling around after having too much to drink, even a stag party of boisterous young men walking along to the next pub on their pub crawl. He passed anonymously amongst the intoxicated throng.

He suddenly heard a voice calling his name. “John?” He turned around and came face to face with a smiling Mary Morstan.

***

Mary had suggested grabbing a drink together. John was a little reluctant at first, wondering if he would be able to control himself around her. But surely he would be able to now. The itch of hunger wasn’t there anymore, scratching at his mind, urging him on. No, his hunger was satiated and Mary was beautiful, so he had agreed. She suggested her favorite pub, which proved to be lively but not rowdy. A good place to hold a conversation without worrying about being overheard, everyone wrapped up in their own discussions to be concerned with others.

“I’m glad we ran into each other,” Mary laughed as they sat close together at the rear of the pub. “I had a wonderful time last night and I’m happy I didn’t want to have to wait too long to see you again.” She smiled at John, her eyes sparkling with her happiness. 

“I’m really glad too,” John said, sincerely. Last night had been the best date he had been on in three years. Longer really, now that he thought about it, since Sherlock had always ultimately ruined his dates during the time they had lived together. She shifted closer to him on the bench they were sharing, resting a hand on his knee. He hesitantly dropped his face closer to hers, wanting to kiss her. She happily obliged, going the final distance to press her lips to his. When they broke away, grinning just as they had the previous night, John gently brushed her hair behind her ear, exposing the rhythmic throbbing of her neck’s pulse point. John gently brushed the back of his fingers across it, feeling the beat. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

***

“I can’t find John,” Sherlock hastily exclaimed, on the phone with his brother.

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?” replied his brother, worry and scorn in calm his tone. 

“I mean I can’t find him,” he snarled. “He knocked me unconscious and then left. I’ve looked everywhere and I don’t know where he is.” Sherlock was frantic. He was currently pacing frantically in front of the hospital, having already checked John’s new flat, his favorite pub, and the park he frequently walked through. 

“Have you checked Mary’s flat?” 

“Who?” Sherlock couldn’t recall ever meeting a Mary… Sarah, the one with the spots, the one with the nose, the boring teacher… None of them were called Mary as far as Sherlock could remember. 

“He went on a date with her yesterday evening,” informed Mycroft. “I believe a mutual friend set them up.” Sherlock suddenly remembered. Just the evening before he had seen John on his first date with the woman. 

“Of course!” Sherlock was thankful that he knew just where she lived, having followed John there only previous night. Mycroft hung up the phone, but not before encouraging him to get there as quickly as he possibly could before John did anything he would later regret.

***

The cab wasn’t moving quickly enough. Sherlock was antsy in the back seat, unable to sit still, urging the car to move faster. When the cab began to slow as it approached the address given, Sherlock thrust a handful of notes at the driver, and burst from the car before it had even fully come to a stop. He flew up the stairs of the building, running until he reached Mary’s door. He tried the handle. Locked. He pressed his ear to the door, trying to hear any movement coming from inside. He couldn’t hear anything. Maybe John wasn’t here after all. He pressed his forehead to the door, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. 

How could he have let John get away from him like this? The man was only a few hours into his change. He could not afford to be left alone right now, and here he was, trying to ensure that Sherlock would never find him. Of course Mycroft had taken the security off of John and onto Sherlock, assuming that the two would not be separated after what had happened. He assumed Sherlock was smarter than to let a freshly made vampire out of his sight. He had to think. Where else would John go? He had checked Lestrade’s, Mike’s, even Sarah’s, surreptitiously stalking the area around the outside of their homes, peaking through windows to see if John had gone to any of them for a quiet place to think, or, god forbid, for food. But they were all safe and sound, no signs of John having made an appearance. He couldn’t think of anywhere else to look. 

A sudden cry pulled him away from his scrambling thoughts. A cry of pain from inside Mary’s flat. Without hesitation, Sherlock kicked in the door, cracking the frame as the deadbolt was shoved through it. Sherlock followed the continued cries through the flat and burst into Mary’s bedroom. The two were lying on Mary’s bed, their nakedness hidden by the blankets. It did not take a genius to guess what they had been doing before John had suddenly lost control of himself. But now that John’s instincts had taken over, it would take a lot to bring him back down. John had Mary pinned to the bed, holding her arms down, his teeth sunk into the the flesh where her neck and shoulder meet. Tears were streaming down Mary’s face from the pain and shock from what was happening to her as she tried to fight the man over her. 

Sherlock roughly yanked John off the woman by the scruff of his neck, and threw him across the room. John stumbled on his feet, but once he recovered, tried to rush back to Mary once more. Sherlock held him back, utilizing his entire body to keep him away from the bleeding woman. John’s irises were black, his pupils were blown so wide, he was baring his teeth, his short fangs dangerous as he growled at the man blocking his path. His entire body was vibrating, the smell of Mary’s blood heavy in the air. He was thrumming to get back to it, to latch back onto her shoulder and drink his fill, while he felt her naked body, beautiful and soft beneath him. Tonight, John had learned the hard way that, for vampires, sex is all about the blood. It isn’t about love or even lust. Only the blood, the feed. 

It is a weapon for vampires. One that they are able to use freely in the sex-addled world of the 21st century. It was easy to find willing humans to take to bed, unknowingly walking and kissing and lusting to their deaths. Once a vampire was lost in the heated passions that the two bodies shared together, it was impossible to reign themselves in. Feeding was inevitable when sex was involved, because the combination of the two was utter ecstasy and no vampire in their right mind would want sex without the blood as well. There was no way around it.

Sherlock needed to get John’s attention away from Mary. John needed the blood and the sex and he was desperately fighting Sherlock to get back to Mary where he could have both. John was animalistic, blinded by his need. He didn’t know what he was doing, who he was fighting against. All he knew was the scent of blood and sex in the air. The only thing Sherlock could do was to remove the attention from Mary and put it on himself. John needed the sex and the blood, so he would give it to him. He pulled John into a punishing kiss. John, impetuous and wild with bloodlust and physical hunger responded eagerly, forcing Sherlock’s mouth open with his own, desperate for more. Sherlock purposefully dragged his tongue along the sharp point of one of John’s fangs, cutting the muscle just enough to draw blood, allowing it to gently seep out into both of their mouths. He had John’s full attention now. John gripped Sherlock’s hair roughly, trying to pull their mouths closer together, nipping at his the taller man’s with his teeth, trying to draw even more blood.

John suddenly tore his mouth away from Sherlock’s, moving to Sherlock’s neck, trying to get at more skin to kiss and blood to drink. He ripped the top few buttons of Sherlock’s shirt off to expose more of the taller man’s pale chest. He tried to back Sherlock into the wall, to provide better leverage and more control, but Sherlock wouldn’t comply. Instead, he slammed his fist into the side of John's head three consecutive times, with all of his strength behind the blows. John slumped to the ground, unconscious, blood smeared around his lax mouth.

With John taken care of for the moment, Sherlock turned back to Mary who was still sitting on the bed, the blankets tugged up around her, hiding her naked body. She was frozen with fear. She had one hand cupped over the bloody wound on her neck, the other clutching tightly to the blankets as though they would protect her. A faint sheen of sweat covered her body, she couldn't stop shaking, and her eyes were wide, fixed on John's unconscious body on her floor. She was going into shock. Sherlock slowly approached her, his hands held in front of him, palms facing her, to show he meant her no harm. He slowly eased himself down on the bed, sitting beside her.

"Mary," Sherlock spoke quietly and calmly to try and get her attention, but he didn't want to make her scream again. They had made enough noise as it was. He was surprised no one had called the police after her first scream. He tried to get her attention again but the woman couldn't tear her eyes away from John. "Mary, you’re alright, but I need you to look at me." Shakily, she slowly directed her focus to the stranger sitting on her bed. Sherlock looked directly into her eyes, catching her gaze and holding it there. Suddenly her entire demeanor calmed. She was no longer shaking with fear but was rather relaxed. She stared back at Sherlock, her eyes fixed and unable to move away from the vampire's, unable to even blink.

"Mary, you will have no recollection of went on this evening. You will have no recollection of ever meeting John Watson this evening. You decided not to pursue a relationship with him after your evening yesterday. You did not have enough in common. You will never think of the man again. You came home alone and decided to go to sleep immediately." Her eyelids started to close as her body responded to Sherlock’s direction that she should be asleep already. Sherlock caught her before her body fell back, keeping her upright for a moment longer. Her pricked his own thumb on his tooth and then smeared the blood over the bite on her neck. The small amount of blood would close the wound so there would be nothing to find by the time she woke. John had not taken very much of her blood, so she would recover just fine. He grabbed some tissues from the nightstand and cleaned away the blood on her neck and hand. He put the soiled tissues in his coat pocket to later deposit in a trash bin outside of her flat so that she wouldn't find them.

Once she was asleep, Sherlock went to check on John once more. Still out cold. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and texted his brother. 

_Found John. Need assistance at Mary's flat with the cleanup. The door frame is broken. She won’t remember anything. I need to get John home before he wakes up. - SH_

_I have men on the way to fix it and make sure Mary is in order. Get John home safely. I will be round tomorrow morning. - MH_

Sherlock huffed, but he knew that was coming. Mycroft had to get his hands in everyone’s affairs. With a sigh, Sherlock heaved the unconscious vampire over his shoulder and set off for Baker Street once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, no. I couldn't kill Mary. That would have been too angsty for me to handle writing!
> 
> Also, I took a Being Human (UK, episode 3.4 "The Pack") approach to the whole vampires and sex thing. I really liked how they handled it, so I decided to pay a little homage to them here! It all makes perfect sense to me with how I believe vampires would work, so I found it fitting.
> 
> Also also, sorry things got a little gross with Sherlock and John's kiss... I saw it in my head and knew I couldn't have it any other way but once I got around to actually writing it I was surprised with how slightly icky it all was... But hey, I suppose that's vampires for you.
> 
> Also also also, I occasionally post updates of how the writing process is going on my Sherlock tumblr ([themanbeneaththehat.tumblr.com](http://themanbeneaththehat.tumblr.com)), though it's mostly just pleas for other people to write it for me when I have writer's block, or an announcement that I'm almost done with a chapter!  
>  ~~no this is not a shameless self-promotion i don't know what you're talking about~~
> 
> Blerg. I'm rambling again. Anyway. Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having a love affair with angst. Sorry.

Mycroft arrived at precisely 7:00 in the morning the next day. He knocked quietly on the door of 221C where he knew Sherlock would be with John. Sherlock glowered at his brother when he answered the door, but quietly followed him up the stairs to his old flat all the same after locking the door to 221C behind him, just in case John woke while they were talking.

“The Council is not pleased with how you’re handling this situation, Sherlock,” chastised Mycroft, settling into Sherlock’s old chair. Apparently Mycroft had been keeping the flat paid for, even after John had left. Another promise made to Sherlock, to look after Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock supposed this was a way of looking after both Mrs. Hudson and John, in case the man ever had wanted to return to 221B for any reason. It was also a likely contributing factor to why John had eventually moved out. He was never one to accept charity.

The flat looked very much the same from when he had last seen it. Less cluttered of course, as it had not been the home of an interminably bored vampire with a proclivity for mad experiments for three years. Sherlock snapped out of his reverie as Mycroft continued speaking. “Not only did you very rashly decide to turn him, but then you let him knock you unconscious while he roamed through London without anyone there to guide him in how things are done in our world. They aren’t entirely sure that they should leave John in your care.”

“That’s absurd. What was I supposed to do? Let him die? And so he was out on his own for a few hours. No real damage was done. Mary won’t remember a thing and you had her flat taken care of. I found him and I will not be letting him out of my sight again.” Mycroft gave him a hard look. Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “There’s more?”

“He killed a man behind a pub,” replied Mycroft frankly. Sherlock froze. “Drank him dry. Didn’t even bother hiding the body properly. My men found him haphazardly thrown inside of a dumpster, barely even hidden. We were lucky to find it first."

“He killed someone?” Sherlock didn’t know how to process the words. His John had killed someone. An innocent. John would never do that. He’s killed before, obviously, but only with a good reason. Only when he had to. How could John have done that? Sherlock had never expected John to actually kill someone innocent. Come close maybe, but not actually do it. John was more careful than that, it wasn't John, could never be John, he didn't believe Mycroft, he was lying, he would never—

“Do pay attention, Sherlock,” drawled Mycroft, interrupting Sherlock’s downward-spiraling thoughts. “The Council wants to take him for this. They do not think you are suited to the job of looking after him. They believe that you are too… emotional regarding the situation, and I am inclined to agree them.”

“Emotional?” Sherlock spat the word. He never liked being associated with emotions, but he knew there was some truth to what Mycroft was saying. As much as he didn’t like emotions, he had them. Especially in regards to John. He abhorred them. Emotions. They were messy. Just like this situation. He should have taken more care with John those first few minutes after the man had woken from death. But he had let those messy emotions get the better of him and he lost all control over the situation, handing it over to a brand new, uncontrollable vampire instead.

Sherlock snapped his attention back to Mycroft, his eyes blazing with fury at the suggestion. “Of course I’m suited. Who else could do it?” 

“He killed one human and nearly killed another within the first few hours of the change and you were nowhere to be found. Does that sound ‘suited’ to you?”

“I will not let them take him away, Mycroft!” Sherlock snarled. “He’s not an animal.”

“No, but he is acting like one.” Mycroft replied cooly. Sherlock knew that much was true. 

“That’s because he left without giving me a chance to explain how to do things. I can teach him, Mycroft. Just— just don’t let them take him from me. I can’t lose him, not after everything. I left him once already. I won’t do it again. I just got him back.”

Mycroft contemplated Sherlock’s words for a moment. “Very well. I will inform the Council. They will not be happy about it though, Sherlock.” He rose from the chair he was occupying and reached into his pocket. “I would advise leaving London as soon as possible. There are too many people here. It is easy for a new vampire to become overwhelmed in a large city such as this.” He handed Sherlock a key. “The key to the country house, should you decide to heed my advice.”

“I have no intention of leaving, Mycroft. How am I supposed to teach him how to live around humans if he isn’t around any of them?” snarled Sherlock, though he pocketed the key all the same.

 

***  


 

John had woken only a few minutes before Sherlock returned downstairs. He was pacing the sitting room restlessly, a large bruise on his left eye, though it would likely be gone by the end of the night. He didn’t say anything to Sherlock when he walked in; he just glared and paced, acting like a caged animal. After his discussion with his brother, Sherlock had resolved to not let his feelings and guilt take control of him any more. He had to take care of John, to teach him, and the only way to do that was from a more clinical approach. No more emotions.

“How do you feel?”

John glared at Sherlock. Sherlock had never seen him look so furious. “Hungry.”

“That’s normal. The hunger will be less strong eventually. You’re new, so it’s more intense for the time being. Drink this.” Sherlock tossed John a bag of blood. 

John eyed it, the doctor in him showing a look of annoyance on his face. “Where did you get this?”

“Mycroft brought them for you. There is a system in place that ensures vampires can get bags of blood readily when they are needed.”

“So you steal them from the hospital?”

“Not quite. There is a Council. The Vampire Council. It’s our form of government. They set up the system, they pay off hospitals and blood banks. No one asks questions and we get our blood.”

The bag of blood in his hands was calling his name and he wanted to answer. He tore off the top of the bag with his teeth, and took a greedy drink. He spat it out immediately. “That tastes like shit,” he exclaimed, spitting again to try and get it all out of his mouth.

“I know, but it does the trick. It tastes stale because it is. Fresh is better, as I’m sure you are more than aware of,” he eyed John disdainfully. “But it will keep you alive and I am not letting you anywhere near a human right now.”

John took a smaller drink from the bag this time, and winced at the taste, but didn’t spit it out. “So the vampires have a government?” John scoffed.

“Of course we do. We aren’t animals, John, even though you clearly think otherwise.”

“Look at what I’m doing, Sherlock,” John sneered, raising the bag of blood in his hand. “Look at this and tell me it isn’t animalistic.”

Ignoring him, Sherlock continued. “The Council is threatening to take you away. Lock you up until you can be controlled.”

“Yes, definitely not an animal then,” John replied sarcastically.

“John—“

“No, Sherlock!” John shouted. “You don’t get to tell me I’m not an animal and then use words like that. That I need to be ‘controlled’ and ‘locked up’. And as far as I’m concerned, your council can go fuck themselves. You too for that matter.”

“John—”

“No!” John snapped again. “None of this is my fault. They should lock you up instead, you bastard!”

Sherlock was growing frustrated by John’s constant interruptions. He needed to explain and John wasn’t letting him. “Let me speak, dammit! They aren’t going to take you. Not yet anyway. You just have to learn to control yourself, John. I can teach you how to do that, but you have to be willing to learn. You killed someone last night and I won’t allow that to happen again.”

“What of it?” John responded coldly.

Sherlock was shocked by John’s response. He didn’t know what to say. The John he knew would never have been so thoughtless about the loss of a human life. “You— you killed a man, John. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Should it? Isn’t that what us monsters are supposed to do? Kill people?” John’s voice was unsettlingly cold and unemotional.

“N— No, John.” Sherlock shook his head. “No, that’s not how things are done,” he said, trying to explain. He wanted to be clinical about what needed to happen, about how he would teach John what to do and how to survive without exposing vampires, but John wouldn’t allow it. He had killed and he felt no remorse and Sherlock did not know how to handle this new version of John he was faced with. 

“Am I supposed to feel bad, Sherlock?”

“I can teach you,” Sherlock pleaded, not wanted to address John’s question because it was breaking his heart. “I can teach you how to drink from a human without killing them.”

“Why would I want to know how to do that?” There was malice in John’s voice.

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and huffed out a breath of frustration and utter despair. “Because that’s how it’s done, John, it’s important you know how—”

“Am I supposed to feel bad for that man, Sherlock?” John growled again. He grasped the front of Sherlock’s shirt, forcing the taller man to look him in the eye, demanding an answer from him.

“Yes!” Sherlock shouted back, grasping John’s face in his hands. “Yes, you are supposed to feel bad because that’s who you are, John. Don’t lose yourself in this, don’t let it defeat you and take your humanity from you!”

“ _How_ am I supposed to feel bad for him, Sherlock? I can’t feel anything at all anymore. You took that away from me. I am _not_ human anymore. Don’t expect me to act like one just to appease you.” He roughly shoved Sherlock away from him.

“You have to fight this, John! Do it for yourself, do it for me! Just fight it! You _can_ feel again, you just have to work for it, try for it.”

“You are nothing to me, Sherlock. Why would I fight this for _you_?” he spat the words. “You destroyed every part of me. You don’t deserve to have me try for _you_.”

“Then do it for yourself. Don’t do it for me. Fight it for you,” Sherlock replied desperately.

John was silent, staring hard into Sherlock's eyes. It was a long time before he spoke, or at least it felt like a long time to Sherlock. When he did finally speak, the words were quiet, almost whispered, “Why didn’t you let me die? Why did you save me?” The words were not accusatory this time, but a genuine question.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He thought the answer obvious, even to John. “Do you really need to ask that question?” John hesitated and then nodded, unable to look Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock took a deep breath and continued, “I care about you, John. I know it might not seem that way right now, but I do. I always have. You… challenge me. You challenge me in the best possible way.” Sherlock shut his eyes, blocking out the world while he struggled through his words. “You make me try to be a better person. You always made me try to be more human and— and I couldn’t let the world lose you, John. I couldn’t let your life just be taken away like that by some common imbecile. The world needs you, John. _I_ need you. You aren’t lost forever, you just need to find your way back to who you were. It will take time and I know you don’t want to hear that, but it will. It will be hard, but I know you can do it.“ 

Sherlock opened his eyes again and found John looking at him, boring into him, trying to find any lies in the speech Sherlock had just made. Finally the man broke eye contact, looking away, then down at the floor. Finally John nodded.

“I’ll try. For both of us.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know what this chapter is... But there comes a time when I just have to accept it, push on and deal with it.

John had promised Sherlock that he would not to run away again. Sherlock had promised John would stop looking so pathetic and morose about the situation. So they had decided to vacate the oppressive 221C and relocated to the flat upstairs. Both men seemed terribly uncomfortable being back in their old home again, together once more after so long. After a few minutes of standing in the doorway, not knowing what to do with themselves, both men did what they thought was natural to them. John went to the kitchen to make tea for them, and Sherlock awkwardly shuffled around, trying to busy himself with various objects lying about to see if there was anything interesting about them before going to the bookshelf and pretending to look at the titles to choose one.

John reappeared in the doorway, two mugs in hand, steam drifting up from the cups in transparent swirls. “Can I even drink this?” asked John, the thought that he might not be able to eat or drink regular food anymore only occurring to him then.

“Of course. Tea and other hot drinks are quite pleasant actually. Warms up the body a bit.” John gave him an inquisitive look at that, so Sherlock continued, “You’re body is much cooler now, about room temperature. Hot drinks will raise your temperature. That’s why I drank so much tea…” Sherlock looked away, unwilling to meet John’s eyes. “Before.” He cleared his throat, pushing away his feelings of guilt as he had promised. “So you wouldn’t notice just how cold I was. The tea won’t taste the same as before, your tastebuds have changed, but it won’t taste too bad, and the warmth more than makes up for the slightly off taste. Food on the other hand, is not particularly good. Vampires tend to avoid it.”

“That explains why you never ate very much when we lived here.” John looked down to the ground, unsure of what to do himself now that the tea had been made.

“Listen, John—“

“Will sunlight burn me now?” John interrupted, not wanting to hear Sherlock’s explanations or excuses.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and tilted his head slightly to the side in confusion. “What?”

“Sunlight. Isn’t it supposed to be, you know, deadly to vampires?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. How many times have you seen me go out into broad daylight?”

“Fair enough… What about crosses? Silver? Holy water, garlic, stake through the heart?”

“A stake through the heart would kill anything, John,” Sherlock said in a bored tone, but the corners of his mouth were twitching upwards in amusement. “The rest are just inanimate objects. You’ve clearly seen too many bad movies.”

“Okay fine,” John quietly chuckled. Sherlock was glad to hear his friend laugh again. The past couple of days had been rough and emotional and incredibly painful. To hear his friend laugh once more after so long was like music to his ears. “So how do you kill a vampire then? We obviously heal incredibly quickly.”

“Why? Are you plotting my death?” Sherlock playfully smirked.

John grimaced. “No,” his voice had sobered, no longer full of amusement at a ridiculous conversation. “I couldn’t watch you die a second time.” John kept his eyes fixed on the mug of tea cradled in his hands.

“John, I’m sorry, I—“ John gave Sherlock a pointed look, and shook his head, indicating that he didn’t want to hear Sherlock apologize anymore. “Um—“ Sherlock cleared his throat again. “A stake through the heart will do it, obviously. Fire, decapitation, etc. I suppose if you cut off enough limbs it’ll do the trick as well. We’re resilient and strong, but there’s only so much healing our bodies are capable of.”

“How long is it going to take before I’m… safe?”

“It’s hard to say. For some it takes years, sometimes, for the lucky few, it takes less. Some can never quite get control over their instincts.”

“What happens to them?”

“The Council takes them.”

“Why?”

“It’s imperative that the humans do not know about us. You know how they are. We eat them. They would never accept us.”

“There would be chaos. A war.”

“Undoubtedly. And the humans would win. There are far more of them than there are of us. We might be strong, but we aren’t indestructible. The Council takes the vampires incapable of controlling themselves and handles them in their own way.”

“Which is how?” John asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Sherlock paused briefly. “They execute them.” He looked down at his hands before looking back at John, choosing his words carefully. “Vampires are not a kind race, John. If someone proves that they are unable to assimilate and live amongst humans in secret, then the council has no option. It’s a choice between killing a few, or risking exposure and sentencing every one of us to death at the hands of humans. I’m going to do everything I can to keep you away from them, John, but I can’t do that without your help and cooperation.” John nodded in assent and sipped his tea. 

***

_Two Weeks Later_

“I can’t eat anymore of this shit!” John shouted and threw a half-drunk bag of blood against the wall of the sitting room, red staining the damask wallpaper as it dripped down to pool on the floor. Anger was coming off of him in waves, thick in the confined space of the flat. He couldn’t stop moving. The past two weeks John had been a constant ball of frenetic energy that he was only just able to reign in. He paced the flat, glared at Sherlock, made too much tea, and his fingers constantly drummed against his legs when he attempted to sit still for any period of time before he threw himself to his feet and began his pacing again. He was like an addict itching for his next fix. “I just can’t do it, knowing what it can be like. I need an actual person, Sherlock!” 

“Which is precisely why you can’t have that again yet,” replied Sherlock cooly, without even looking up from the book he was reading, seated casually in his chair by the fire. “You’re too antsy. You won’t be able to control yourself and I will not let you kill another human.”

“What about from you then? Your blood was much better than that,” he said impatiently, pointing to the offending blood on the wall. Sherlock knew John was desperate at this remark. The man didn’t like to talk about his vampirism. He accepted it, but he refused to acknowledge it. To talk so candidly about drinking blood was unexpected.

Looking up from his book to meet John’s eye, Sherlock simply said, “No.”

John was taken back a little. He was not expecting that. “Why not? You’ve let me do it before,” John glowered.

“John, there’s—“ Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face and up through his hair. “There’s a connection formed between a vampire and his maker. Drinking from each other solidifies that bond. It’s… a very intimate thing. If vampires drink from each other they are bonded together forever. I should never have let you drink from me without explaining what it means, but I won’t let you do it again. I don’t know if I would be able to control myself and I won’t force you to be bonded to me forever. I have caused you enough pain without forcing you to remain with me longer than you desire.”

John’s brow creased. “Sherlock, I—“ He tried to get a word in but Sherlock just continued to speak over him.

“I will help you learn to control yourself when you are ready to do so, and when you are able to do that, then you can do what you please with your life.” He turned back at his book and continued to read.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, John bit out, “Okay, fine. But you can’t make me eat any more of the bagged blood. It’s vile. I need something else. I need it from a— a human.” John wondered if he would ever get used to referring to people as humans in this manner.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not yet.”

John threw his arms up in exasperation. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to do this, not keeping me cooped up in the bloody flat day in and day out!”

“One wrong move, John,” Sherlock snapped, slamming his book shut, the loud noise making John flinch. “That’s all it takes. One more death, and you’re gone! The Council will take you. They are watching us very closely, John, and I will _not_ do anything that will give them a reason to take you away from me!”

John took a deep breath, calming himself after Sherlock’s outburst. Their emotions were running high and he didn’t want to have yet another fight with his old friend. “Sherlock, you asked me to try, so let me try. Not letting me do anything isn’t helping either of us.”

Sherlock considered John’s words for a moment. “What did you feel when you killed that man?”

“Nothing. I felt nothing. I still don’t feel anything.”

“And does that bother you?”

John paused, mulling over his thoughts. “Yes.” He sat down in his armchair, contemplating that night. “But it’s more that I know it should bother me than that it actually does bother me. He was innocent, I know, but I can’t find anything in me that really cares about that. It was worth it. I— I felt my heart beat again. I hadn’t even realized it wasn’t beating anymore until I suddenly felt it again. It was— It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

Sherlock nodded. “And after he finally died?”

John furrowed his brow, trying to find the word. After a moment he said, “Empty.”

“That’s because you let him die. You were left with a sense of death, not of life. That’s why you felt nothing. Why you still feel nothing.”

“And if I had let him live?”

“We _are_ death, John. We don’t have life and we are designed to take the lives of others. You allowed that part of you to take over that night. We are suspended in time, and that is the most painful type of death. Your heart doesn’t beat, your body no longer grows and changes. But feeding off a human… you can share life again. You heart beats with theirs and there is no greater thing in the world. Let them live and that feeling lasts. Not long, but long enough for it to be worth sacrificing the extra blood you would get from draining them. But if you let them die, it’s like dying yourself all over again when your heart slows and finally stops when theirs does.”

“Let me try again. I— I want that, Sherlock,” John pleaded. “I can’t just sit here any longer. You have to let me try. Come with me, make sure I do it right, stop me if you need to, but let me try again.”

Sherlock checked his watch; night would be falling soon. He sighed and relented, “Drink another bag so you aren’t too hungry and we’ll go. We leave in an hour.” He stood and retreated to his room, wondering if John was really ready for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff will actually happen in the next chapter, I promise...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only halfway proofread this because I just really wanted to get it up... Sorry for the delay, for whatever reason I've been writing some of the chapter after this one _instead_ of this one... because i'm a crazy person. I've also been entirely consumed with reading IBegToDreamAndDiffer's ["Give Me a Label (I'll Make Confetti)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/487063) because holy mother of god that fic is perfect and it's ruining my life because I couldn't do anything else while I was reading it.  
>     
> Anyway. Ranting again...
> 
> Enjoy some vampire meal time.

“How am I supposed to even get a person alone long enough to do this?” asked John gruffly, as they walked down the busy road, shops, restaurants, and pubs buzzing with talk and laughter from the people inside enjoying their evening.

“You did it perfectly fine on your own two weeks ago. You took it a little far, granted,” replied offhandedly. “But you got the man alone easily enough,” he added cheekily.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t as though I was planning for that to happen, now was I?”

“Why does that matter? You can do the same thing, if you please. It makes no difference how you find a person. Just try not to make a scene.”

“Why would I make a scene?”

“Because you haven’t had fresh blood in over two weeks and you’re itching for it.”

John didn’t have anything to say to that. He knew it was true. Just walking through the streets amongst the humans was getting to him. It was taking everything in him to not grab the next person to walk by him and sink his teeth into their soft flesh and drink them dry.

“How do you do it? I can’t imagine you chatting up some woman at a pub or a club.” John smirked at the thought. Sherlock was attractive enough, obviously, but he was just not the type to voluntarily speak to people. And even if he did speak to them, it was an impressive feat for him not to chase them away within five minutes.

“And why is that so hard to picture?” John’s smirk was wiped off his face.

“Because you’re just so… _you_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’ve seen me work, John. You know how easily I can switch it off. Or at least pretend to. I can be charming when I want to be.” He sounded bored of this conversation. John was happy that at least the other man wasn’t offended by his remark. John decided that he wanted to go to a club to find someone, figuring it would be easier to find someone willing. They approached the building, watching the humans drift in and out, drunk, unaware that such predators were in their midst.

“I’m just going to get a drink first,” John said, making his way to the door.

“No,” Sherlock snapped, grabbing his arm and hauling him to the alleyway. A couple was farther down the way, heatedly kissing each other.

“Let me go,” John growled, annoyed, trying to wrench his arm out of Sherlock’s hand, but the other man held fast.

“You’re already not in control of yourself, we don’t really need to add alcohol to the equation. We aren’t even going inside,” Sherlock snapped. He took a calming breath, closing his eyes as he did so. When he opened them again, John saw a heat, an intensity behind them. “You might feel fine now, but once you are touching another person,” he lifted the hand not gripping John’s arm and lightly trailed his fingertips along the side John’s neck, trailing down to the open ‘v’ his button-down was making. “You will not be in control any longer.” John’s breath quickened, his blood started boiling, and he felt the urge to rip out Sherlock’s throat and drink his blood. Sherlock could obviously sense what John was feeling and thinking. He took a step back, breaking their contact. “My point exactly,” he said patronizingly, with a nod at John and how worked up he had gotten.

“I can control myself,” John retorted indignantly.

“No, you can’t. But we’re going to fix that.” Sherlock turned away, clearly done talking for the moment. The two men leaned against the walls on opposite sides of the building, facing each other. John kept throwing hungry glances towards the couple who were still kissing heavily with roaming hands. Sherlock looked bored, but kept an eye on John in case the man tried to run at the couple. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his coat, selected one from the box, and lit it, inhaling deeply.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” John grumbled, out of habit.

Sherlock exhaled, blowing the smoke up above his head. “Oh yes, these things kill people, can’t they?” he smirked. John rolled his eyes, but made no further comment, silently conceding the point. Sherlock took another drag.

Five minutes later the couple had disappeared, running off to find somewhere more private after noticing John and Sherlock were standing there. They waited a few minutes longer until a twenty-something year old kid exited the club through the side door in the alley, looking for a place to smoke a cigarette. He leaned against the wall, and lit one, taking a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before breathing it out and tilting his head back against the wall. 

John was staring at him. He hadn’t moved, but Sherlock could tell it was taking everything in him to not run towards the man. He was grinding his teeth and clenching his hands tightly into fists. Sherlock dropped his cigarette on the ground, the little flame hissing as the damp pavement extinguished it. “Ready?” he asked John, who nodded. “Walk up to him and make eye contact and maintain it. Concentrate on keeping his eyes on yours. Try not to startle him or it makes the next part harder. It’s much easier if they’re relaxed with you,” Sherlock instructed.

“Then what?” John choked out, eyes locked on the young man smoking down the alley.

“Tell him not to scream.” John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock’s. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find in the man’s eyes, but he was met with utter seriousness. After a long moment of staring at each other, John nodded quickly, and did his best to walk casually down towards the man. He was stiff, but didn’t look too desperate. Once John was halfway to the kid, Sherlock followed slowly.

“Can I bum one off you?” Sherlock heard John ask the kid, his voice friendly enough.

“No problem, mate,” said the kid in reply, reaching into his jacket pocket before John caught his eye. The kid froze, hand still reaching in his jacket, but unable to continue the action, his gaze caught in John’s. Sherlock covered the rest of the distance, standing next to the frozen young man, waiting for John to continue.

“W-what do I do?” John stammered, eyes never leaving the kid’s. Sherlock could practically hear John’s blood boiling in anticipation.

“You have to tell him to not shout or run away. If you don’t, the second you break eye contact, he’s not yours to command anymore, and the pain will definitely bring him out of it. Giving humans instructions while under your gaze ensures that they will listen, regardless of what you do to them and what they feel.”

John took a step towards the kid, and lifted a hand to the side of his head, cradling it in his palm. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t scream or run away, I won’t harm you.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock nod, so John took the moment and moved his head to the kid’s neck. He breathed in the scent, trying to enjoy the moment, but the faint scent of the blood beneath the skin made him lose all sense of self-control. There was no time to savor this. He had waited long enough. John needed the blood immediately. He gripped the kid’s hips hard and then sunk his teeth into the flesh of his neck. To John’s amazement, the kid gasped, but did not cry out. It had worked. Whatever it was that he did, it had worked. 

The blood was flowing freely into his mouth, his craving finally satisfied. He felt Sherlock move to stand behind him, sandwiching John between himself and the kid he was pressing into the wall. Sherlock wound his hand around him to find the pulse point in the neck of the man John was drinking from, monitoring his heart rate to know when to pull John off. John’s heart was beating strongly and John had never felt anything so wonderful in all his life. Sherlock’s other hand wound around John’s body, resting on his heart to feel it beating strongly. 

John could stay like this forever. Tasting the metallic blood on his tongue, warming his body as he swallowed it, pressed close to Sherlock’s body, the other man’s hand on his heart. He couldn’t remember a time in his life he had felt this euphoric. 

“John,” Sherlock murmured in his ear. “John, you have to let him go.” John wouldn’t move, he just kept drinking, his heart beating strongly in his chest, even has it started to beat at a slightly slower pace just as the man’s beneath him was. “ _John_ ,” Sherlock repeated, much more forcefully this time. John just growled in return and bit harder into the neck beneath his teeth. Sherlock moved his hand from the kid’s pulse point and moved it to the scruff of John’s neck, grasping hard, and pulling him away. 

The man had passed out at some point and slumped down to the cold ground beneath him. Sherlock pulled John away from him roughly. He was pressed against John’s back, one hand holding his neck, the other still over John’s slowly beating heart. Sherlock would attend to the young man in a moment, after he was assured that John would not rush for the wounded man, unconscious on the concrete at their feet. 

Sherlock pressed John’s front into the wall of the alley opposite the bleeding man, holding him their hard and forcing John to look away from the blood. John was struggling against him, but Sherlock was older and stronger so he easily kept John there despite the other man’s efforts. “John!” he snapped in his ear. “Listen to me, John. You have to control yourself. I know you want the blood but you’ve had enough.” He pressed his hand even more firmly to John’s heart. “Feel this?” John continued to struggle. “Do you feel it, John?!” he exclaimed. 

“Yes,” John growled hatefully, wishing for nothing more than to beat Sherlock unconscious so he could continue drinking the kid’s blood. It had been so delicious and fresh and warm and John wanted all of it.

“John, you can _still_ feel it. Even though you have broken your connection with him, your heart is _still_ beating. It lasts a little bit longer when you let them live. It stays strong for a little longer. _Feel your heartbeat, John._ ”

John stilled a little, though he squirmed a little as he tried to calm his body. He breathed heavily through his nose, little puffs of steam blowing out in the cold. His eyes were closed tightly and his teeth were clenched in his efforts as he focused on the heart beating in his chest. Last time, when he had drained Peter, his heart had stopped with Peter’s, and slowed with his until it finally came to a complete stop when the man had died. Now it was still beating strongly. Not quickly, but he could still feel it in his body.  
After five minutes of being held against the cold brick alley wall, John nodded, indicating that he thought Sherlock would be able to let him go now. Sherlock hesitated briefly, then slowly unwound his body from John’s, releasing the man. When John didn’t immediately run towards the unconscious man behind them, Sherlock turned to help the bleeding man.

“Our blood can heal small wounds like this quite easily,” he informed John, who was still facing away from the man Sherlock was kneeling by. John didn’t think he would be able to control himself if he saw the blood — smelling it in the air was difficult enough. Sherlock pricked his index finger on his tooth and rubbed the blood into the wound. “Just a small amount will do for something like this. It will be healed completely in an hour or two. He felt the kid’s pulse in his neck. It was slower than it normally would be, obviously, but it was strong. He would feel a little weak and lethargic when he woke, but he would be fine.

Sherlock stood and turned towards John. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he offered to John. John looked confused, so Sherlock huffed out a slightly exasperated breath and wiped the blood away from John’s mouth for him. “You did well tonight, John. Better than I expected.” John only nodded. Sherlock could feel how tense John was. He needed to get them out of here quickly before John’s self-control expired. He grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him out the back of the alley, away from the front entrance to the club and all of the humans gathered there. The street the came out on was empty. After a few minutes of walking, John still hadn’t said anything. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and shoved his free hand into his coat pocket, the other still holding John’s wrist, feeling the faint pulse still there.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock inquired, squeezing John’s wrist in encouragement. 

John thought about it for a moment, before a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“ _Alive._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, thank you all for your wonderful comments! It means the world to me! I'm so glad that you're enjoying the story :)


	10. Chapter 10

Two weeks later, they moved out of Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson needed to come home and Sherlock didn’t trust John living with a human in such close proximity. They had gone out a few more times after that night at the club, but there had been no success so far, not that Sherlock expected it so soon. It would take time and now they had all the time in the world. But Sherlock needed to keep John safe from the Council and prevent him from killing any humans, so he needed to move them to a more secure, human-free flat. 

Sherlock begrudgingly accepted assistance from Mycroft in obtaining a relatively secluded place for them to live. It was not their home, but it would have to do on such short notice. When they finally arrive, Sherlock glared at everything in the well furnished flat as though every single inanimate object had personally offended him. Though, being the property of Mycroft would be something that Sherlock would likely consider a personal offense. 

Mycroft appeared the day after they moved in, requesting an audience with John and that Sherlock vacate the premises temporarily while they spoke. Sherlock threw a fit, ordering Mycroft to keep his nose out of their lives, but eventually gave in after a stern look from his friend. John made tea after Sherlock stormed out in an overly dramatic whirl of his coat, while Mycroft waited for him in the sitting room. 

“Well?” asked John, settling down on the couch with his cup of tea after handing Mycroft his own.

Mycroft sat in an armchair opposite him and took a sip of the tea before speaking. “I’m worried about my brother.”

John raised his eyebrows. “And why is that? I thought I was the problem here.”

“You are, and that is why I am worried. You know about Sherlock’s ‘drug addiction’ as he called it, correct?” John nodded. “Well, I don’t imagine that he could have been entirely forthcoming with what he was truly addicted to, seeing as how you were unaware of our entire existence until recently.”

“It wasn’t cocaine?” 

“Not quite. Though he did always have an affinity for cocaine addicts.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at the man across from him, waiting for him to connect the dots.

It didn’t take long for John’s eyes to widen in realization, understand what Mycroft was telling him. “Blood? He was killing people?” Mycroft nodded in affirmation. “How long ago was this?”

“He stopped a year or two before he met you. He was always careful when he was killing, of course, which is why I was able to keep the Council at bay. If anyone knows how to hide a body, Sherlock does. The humans never found any of them.”

“The way he went on about it to me though, the whole feeling life again thing…”

“John, you have to understand, that when you drain enough people, it takes you to a dark place. It is true, that the first time you drain a human, you can feel… vacant. Unfeeling, uncaring, etc.” Mycroft took a sip of his tea. “But after just a few times… it’s a little different. The killing— it becomes… enjoyable. It doesn’t take very many kills for that feeling to overcome you either. Sometimes just two is enough. For Sherlock it would only take one. It doesn’t matter how long it is between kills, or if you don’t kill anyone for a long time in between them either. If you reach that point where killing is pleasurable, it never truly goes away.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do though. Look after him? How? Sherlock doesn’t hunt when I’m around him. He waits until I’m asleep or something. I’ve never seen him drink from a human. He says he doesn’t trust me around the blood that way yet, when I’m not actually involved.”

“You’ve never seen him drink from a human because he doesn’t do it anymore.”

John furrowed his brow in confusion. “What?”

“He refrains from drinking directly from a human. He doesn’t trust himself to do it anymore, and I do not trust him to do it either.”

“What does he eat then?”

“The blood supplied by hospitals.”

John made a face in disgust. “How can he live off of that stuff? It’s vile.”

“Yes, but he does not have much of a choice. The Council eventually found out about his little… hobby.”

“Sherlock said they executed vampires who killed too many times.”

“They do. He’s only alive because I work for the Council.”

John was surprised to heart this. “Wait, you work for them?”

“Of course. I have my hands in many places, John. The Council being the most prominent. I am also the reason that you were allowed to stay here with Sherlock looking after you. The Council wanted to take you in after that first night. They didn’t believe Sherlock was capable of training you given his past, but I spoke for him.”

“Okay, but what does any of this have to do with me? He’s doing fine.”

“John, he was struggling before he met you. _You_ were the one that kept him from breaking and going back to drinking from humans. You were an experiment initially, to see if living with a human was possible. But then of course, you surprised him. He found you interesting unlike the rest of humanity. You inspired him to try and reach his own humanity. _That,_ of course, kept him from killing.” Mycroft sipped his tea and then set it on the table in front of him before looking John sternly in the eye. “That won’t be so easy anymore. He’s immersing himself in it again because of your training. He’s around fresh blood for the first time in many years.”

“What do you want me to do?” 

“You need to dedicate everything you have to learning to control your hunger. Your life, as well as Sherlock’s life, is at risk if this is not successful. The Council is watching the two of you very carefully and there is only so much that I am able to do.” John nodded, the movement nearly imperceptible. Mycroft rose to his feet and walked to the door. When he reached it, he turned back to face John. “Be careful with him, John. He doesn’t think he is, but he’s fragile. This was a difficult addiction to break and you and your humanity gave him a reason to commit to it. Your humanity is gone. He no longer has a reason to be strong.” With that, he left, leaving John on his own to think about everything that had been said.

John was alone for the first time since Sherlock’s return. He knew Sherlock would be back very shortly, but he wanted to use this time to think about that conversation. Mycroft’s information about Sherlock’s past did not come as much of a surprise to John. Sherlock had never cared very much about humanity when John was still human. He had cared about John, yes, but everything else was all about the puzzles and the game. Human life was not a price that Sherlock cared much about, so of course the man had taken lives. It was instinct. John felt it too. John wanted to take lives. 

John felt alive and amazing when he broke away from a human without killing them, but there was something missing. He just didn’t care about the human lives anymore. A small part of him felt a pang of sadness for that lack of emotion towards a people he had once cared so intensely about, but it didn’t change the fact that he did not care enough about the lives of humans anymore to be a motivational factor in his efforts toward controlling himself. 

He wondered how the Council had coerced the entire vampire population into abiding by their rules. Fear was a motivational factor yes, but to have _Sherlock_ abiding by the Council’s rules is what shocked John more than anything Mycroft had told him. Sherlock was never one to play by rules that didn’t suit him.

Sherlock’s very loud arrival, bursting through the door hard enough for it to bang against the wall, jarred John from his thoughts. John set about making tea while Sherlock muttered about overly controlling brothers and a need for a very large wooden stake.

***

Nine months later, John is able to stop himself from draining a human on his own. Sherlock had his hand on the woman’s pulse on her neck as usual and was just about to pull John off of her when he suddenly snapped his head up, his mouth red, breathing heavily. He moved away from her quickly, not wanting to push his self-control any more than necessary. 

There had been multiple close calls in the past nine months. That first time at the club John had been so determined to prove to Sherlock that he could do it without any issue and his obstinacy helped him to stop himself. That stubbornness had slowly faded over time as they fell into a routine and it became difficult for awhile. Sherlock had had to knock him out a few times in order to keep him from attacking the human he had been drinking from again after he was pulled away. Some nights were harder than others, but tonight was a good night. This was the first sign that Sherlock had seen that John would truly be able to get a grip on his instincts and hunger. 

John would eventually be able to take care of the rest of the process on his own, but for tonight they had to count this as a significant victory. John had stopped on his own. Sherlock took care of everything else, smearing her neck with a small amount of his own blood to heal the wound, and ensuring that she wouldn’t remember anything that had happened, while John stayed a fair distance away, watching the process. 

“John!” Sherlock jogged back to where the other man was standing, a large smile plastered on his face. “John, you did it!”

John was breathing heavily, adrenaline clearly coursing through his veins, his eyes darting around, slightly out of focus, before finally settling on Sherlock’s. They stared at each other for a few moments before a grin broke out across John’s face to match the one that was already on his friend’s own. He stepped toward Sherlock and threw himself into the man’s arms for a tight, celebratory embrace, laughter bursting from his mouth. Sherlock hugged back tightly and chuckled deeply. It had been so long since they had anything to be this happy about. Sherlock had hope now. 

Sherlock pressed a congratulatory kiss to John’s hair, too happy in the moment to really care if he should have or not. In response, John pulled back to look in Sherlock’s eyes for a brief moment, before pressing his lips to the taller man’s. The kiss was demanding and Sherlock was eager to respond, opening his mouth immediately when he felt John’s tongue along his lips. Sherlock growled when he felt John’s tongue slip into his mouth, and pushed the shorter man up against wall of the alley they were in, molding their bodies together. Sherlock could taste the woman’s blood in John’s mouth, a faint taste but still there. It was intoxicated and he needed more.

Their lips were heated and forceful against each other, both men fueled by adrenaline. Sherlock’s hands were in John’s hair, holding the other man’s head in place as he deepened the kiss, exploring every inch of John’s mouth with his tongue, while John’s hands gripped Sherlock’s hips, hard enough to leave bruises, pulling their bodies even closer, grinding against him. Sherlock broke away from John’s lips only to trail hot, wet kisses down the man’s neck. John groaned in response, moving his hands to Sherlock’s arse, gaining more leverage in grinding their hips together. 

When Sherlock felt his fangs begin to extend, he shoved himself away from John, breathing heavily. He had lost himself in their kiss and the physicality of what they were doing that he forgot to reign in his emotions, to control himself at all times. He could not drink from John. He would not do that to him, he would not force the man to be forever bound to him in that way. “I’m— I’m sorry, John,” he panted, trying to catch his breath while he got a handle on himself. "But we can't do this." 

He wanted more than anything to reach out and kiss John hard again, but he would not do that. Instead, he scrubbed his hands over his face before shoving them into the pockets of his coat. John looked a little dazed, but said nothing, only nodded in understanding. Sherlock knew John understood why he had had to stop, but that didn’t make him any less sorry that they couldn’t continue what had just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going out of town this week so I'm not entirely sure when the next chapter will be up. Depends on if I get any writing time while I'm away. Plus Camp NaNoWriMo started this week so I have another project that I'll be working on this month... 
> 
> But I left you with a kiss! And some angst. Because it's necessary. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading and commenting!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I said that I didn't know when my next update would be. But 10 hour drives in the car tend to lead to a bit of writing getting done. It's a shorter chapter, but I'm really quite pleased with it. I hope you like it too!

Two months later, John asked to go hunt on his own. He had been doing extremely well, better than Sherlock had ever expected in so short a time, but he had his concerns, of course. He worried about John, despite the progress he had made. John was now able to heal the bites after he pulled away, no longer needing to distance himself immediately for fear of bloodlust taking over. He had control. He and Sherlock always shared a smile and a hug after every hunt, but they never went farther than that like they had after that first night John pulled away on his own. They never mentioned the kiss again, though things had been tense for the first few days afterward. They both walked on eggshells around the other, being overly considerate while simultaneously ignoring one another. Eventually John had had enough. A polite Sherlock was not something he could abide by — it felt unnatural and he didn’t trust it. Sherlock had laughed at this revelation of John’s and then things settled back into normality. But when John asked to go out on his own one night, Sherlock had scowled and said it was out of the question.

“I’ve been fine, Sherlock. I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn about this. We both know that I’m ready to try this.”

“Why do you have to go out on your own? Things have been perfectly fine with both of us going out,” Sherlock scowled.

“I just need to, Sherlock. Please.”

“That’s not a reason,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“Why does there need to be a reason?” John countered.

“Tell me your reason or the answer is automatically going to be ‘no.’ A reason might give me cause to consider.”

John had more than one reason for wanting this. He had barely had five minutes of time to himself since Sherlock turned him a year ago. Sherlock had refused to leave him alone and John understood the reasons for that, but it had been driving both of them crazy. They had always been very attached to each other, but they did spend time apart occasionally. And now, John had himself under control. His hunger no longer controlled him. He felt confident that he wouldn’t kill.

No. That wasn’t right. He was confident that he _didn’t have to_ kill. But a part of him wanted to. Ever since his enlightening conversation with Mycroft, John had never quite been able to shake the desire to kill, to see if what Mycroft had said was true. Was there something _enjoyable_ about it? That was something that John had never experienced as a human — joy at the loss of human life. But John no longer cared about human life, he just couldn’t find it in himself any longer. His sadness over that fact had dissipated long ago. Now he no longer just accepted that he didn’t care, he wanted to test it. How far did his lack of concern go? That’s what John wanted to find out tonight. 

But he obviously couldn’t tell Sherlock that, so he went for the first reason. “Because I want some time on my own, Sherlock. Since this whole thing began we haven’t been separated at all for any length of time and it’s driving us both mad.”

“I have very good reason to keep an eye on you at all times, John,” Sherlock protested.

“Yes, I know. You _did_ have good reason. But I’m doing well, Sherlock. Two months without any slip ups or close calls. Please, I have to know I can do this by myself.”

“But why?”

John was growing frustrated with the conversation. He needed Sherlock to just accept that John needed to go out on his own tonight and there was one thing, John knew, that he could say that would make Sherlock relent and not ask any further questions. “Sherlock,” John sighed, clenching his eyes shut, not wanting to say these words he didn’t mean. He opened his eyes and looked pointedly at his friend. “You said you wouldn’t force me to stay with you forever. That you would teach me how to do this and then I could have the choice to leave. How will we ever know that I’m ready to be on my own if you don’t let me try?” 

Sherlock was suddenly somber. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out so he closed it again. After a moment of silence, Sherlock nodded once and found his voice again. “Do be careful, John,” stressed Sherlock. “Come home straight away once you’re done. And please call if you need me.” Sherlock suddenly turned his back on John and grabbed his violin. He stood facing the window, looking out onto the street below him, set the bow to the strings and began to play an eerily beautiful, sorrowful song, one of his own compositions, that reflected his feelings about what had just happened. 

***

The blood flowed into his mouth, hot, thick, and delicious. John wanted every last drop of it, and tonight he would get it. He had walked through the streets for an hour or so, just enjoying the freedom of being on his own for the first time in so long. He was finally alone with his thoughts, without having Sherlock try and deduce what he was thinking.

And now he was here, alone with this man who was helpless against him, unable to struggle or scream simply because John had told him not to. He had never felt more powerful in his life. He had chosen a man from out of town, traveling alone. No one would miss them. At least no one from London. He had found the man walking through an empty park, doubtlessly wanting to get to where he was going quickly rather than take the safer, but longer, route around the shadowy park. 

John had taken his time with the man before finally biting into the flesh of his neck. He used each of his senses to heighten the intensity of the moment. He could see the pulse point in the man’s neck throbbing, feel it beneath his fingers. He pressed his ear to the man’s heart, hearing the organ beat strongly, pumping his hot blood through his body. He could smell the blood beneath the man’s skin, just waiting to be consumed. He licked a wet stripe up the man’s neck, tasting the skin, fleshy, soft, and slightly salty on his tongue. He grazed his teeth over the neck, reveling in the anticipation he was building for himself. 

Finally, he could take no more. He pressed firmly against the man, holding his compliant body to the trunk of a tree, which had effectively hid them from any potential wandering eyes. Just the knowledge that he was going to kill this man, drain the life away from him, gave John a perverse pleasure. He couldn’t even imagine how he was going to feel afterwards. The first time, with Peter, he hadn’t known what he was doing. Hadn’t known what was happening, what he should do, if he should savor it. His instincts had blinded him and he had essentially missed the entire experience. 

But this was so different, so much better. He sank his teeth into the man’s flesh, moaning with delight with the blood touched his lips. He drank slowly, savoring the sensation of his strongly beating heart even as it beat slower and slower with each long drink. He reverently licked away any stray drops of blood that threatened to drip down the dying man’s neck. He didn’t want to waste any of it. It was his to savor and he relished this moment. 

The man’s breathing became shallow after he slipped into unconsciousness, his heart barely beating. John gently guided the man to the grass below them, his mouth never leaving the neck it was latched on to as he knelt beside him. He could feel his heart slowing as the man’s did, but it didn’t matter. John had never felt more alive. After both hearts had stopped beating and John had drank every last drop of blood, he finally stood, feeling euphoric. Nothing could match what he was feeling right now. He felt so alive as the blood he had drank warmed his body. His head felt fuzzy and he loved it.

“John?”

John whipped around and found himself face to face with a wide-eyed, horrified Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark John returns! The story was getting away from me for a bit and I wasn't sure what to do with it and then one day I had an epiphany and Dark John was reborn! I really hope that you're all enjoying it! More Johnlock will come, don't worry. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There comes a time when you just have to stop looking at the damn chapter and be done with it!  
>    
> Sorry for the delay, everyone. Had a lot of difficulty with this one. I wrote it and then rewrote it and then stared at it and then did a bit more tonight, kind of edited (not really) and now here it is....

“John, w-what have you done?” Sherlock whispered, staring at the dead man slumped against the tree.

John looked from Sherlock to the body and back to Sherlock again. Then he quietly laughed, sighing in relief. Sherlock looked horrified. He couldn’t believe what John had just done and that he was now laughing about it. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them quickly and grabbed John’s face in his hands, forcing eye contact between them. “John, why did you do this?”

“Because I had to,” John replied readily, reverently placing his hands on top of Sherlocks on either side of his face.

“But you’ve been doing so well, I don’t understand how this could have happened.” He searched John’s face as though hoping that it would reveal the answer of how John could have slipped like this. 

“I wanted to do it, Sherlock,” John explained, stroking Sherlock’s hands, closing his eyes as his memory drifted back a few minutes to the moment the man’s life had slipped away and John drained him entirely. “God I wanted it so badly.” A small smile was playing on his lips. He looked as though a huge weight had been lifted off of him. “I’ve never felt anything like this in my life.”

“Y-you used to care so much about humans.” Sherlock croaked, his voice sounding haggard. He looked lost. He just couldn’t understand that John had not only let this happen, but went out hunting with the intention of killing. “I— I understood in the beginning, I had gone through it myself, but I never cared much for other people. But you — you always cared. I thought that would come back eventually, once you learned to control it.”

“That’s the thing though, Sherlock. I do care. I care so much. The man before. Peter. He was a mistake. I took his life thoughtlessly. But this man,” he turned to look at the dead man behind them, “It was so different. I savored his life. I didn’t take it for granted, I respected it. I took my time and God, Sherlock. It was intoxicating. Never have I experienced anything like that in my entire life.”

Sherlock went from confused to infuriated in a flash, dropping his hands from John’s. “ _Respected?_ Have you lost your mind? Did you even know the man’s name?” he said nastily.

“His name doesn’t matter,” John shook his head, ignoring Sherlock’s sudden fury, too caught up in his own emotions to deal with anyone else’s. “It’s his life that matters. I took it but I did it with care. I didn’t throw it away, I enjoyed his life and what he gave to me.” John couldn’t quite fathom his thoughts into words properly, so overwhelmed by what he had just done and how it had made him feel.

“What happened to leaving them alive? What happened to wanting to feel more alive yourself?”

“Don’t you get it, Sherlock? Before, it was fine. But there was always something missing. I had a feeling it was this, but I couldn’t be sure until I tried, but I was right. _This_ is what I’ve been missing. Life and death, in my hands. I felt life before, but nothing like this. I’ve never felt more alive _now_. There’s no comparison.”

“You sound high,” Sherlock accused, shoving John away from him.

“Fuck, I feel like I could be high,” John grinned. “I feel incredible.” He stepped toward Sherlock, wanting the other man to share in his bliss. Sherlock stiffened but he did not move away.

“I’ll call someone from my homeless network to deal with the body. Hopefully Mycroft won’t get word of it. There’s blood around your mouth. Clean it off then let’s go home.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile and sent a text. 

“Why don’t you clean it for me?” John said suggestively. Even though they had not talked about their kiss from months ago, John had thought about it often, and now he wanted more. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, you are perfectly capable of doing it yourself,” He had clearly missed John’s teasing suggestiveness, his eyes still fixed on his mobile. “Hurry up. You can’t walk around the streets like that.” He put the phone back into his pocket and then looked pointedly at John. He was surprised to find the other man looking straight at him, heat in his gaze. “Oh,” he breathed.

John took another step forward, now completely in Sherlock’s space, barely any air between their bodies. “Get the blood for me, Sherlock,” he implored.

Now Sherlock understood what John was doing. “I-I— No. No, I can’t.”

“Please?”

Sherlock shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away from John’s. “John, I-I _can’t_.” Slowly, John lifted his hand and trailed a finger through the wet blood around his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes darted down to follow the movement, transfixed when John offered his blood covered finger to him.

“Just one taste, Sherlock. Please. I know how much you want this. I want this too, Sherlock. With you. You know _exactly_ how I’m feeling right now, don’t pretend otherwise. Mycroft explained everything to me. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, I know. But I just have to and I want to share it with you, please.” John wanted to share this moment, this night with Sherlock. This had been the happiest night of John Watson’s life and the only thing that could make it better was if Sherlock would take part in it with him. Sherlock wouldn’t move though. He would not take the blood right in front of him, though he had not moved away either. With that in mind, John moved even closer to Sherlock and placed on hand on the man’s waist. He stretched his other hand up and pressed his finger to Sherlock’s lips, lightly smearing the fresh blood over them, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. “Please, Sherlock,” he whispered as he dropped his hand to wrap that one around Sherlock as well. 

Still staring into John’s eyes, Sherlock’s tongue slowly licked a small amount of the blood smeared on his lower lip. The second he tasted the blood, his eyes slid shut, marveling at the taste. He hadn’t had blood this fresh in years and it tasted heavenly. John pulled Sherlock even closer to him, while the other man was distracted momentarily, reaching up to pull Sherlock’s head down to his, resting their foreheads together.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock whispered John’s name, clutching at the man’s back.

“Let me do this, Sherlock. Do it with me. _Together_.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of John and the blood still on his friend’s lips. Sherlock desperately wanted to lick it away. His hands traveled up and down John’s back, rubbing lightly as he contemplated the choice laid before him.

“John, we can’t do this,” he said quietly, his tone almost apologetic.

“Please, Sherlock,” John pleaded.

Sherlock shook his head, the two men’s foreheads rubbing together with the movement.

“Just one more time, Sherlock, please. Just one more. Then I’ll stop, Sherlock. I promise,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips. A moment later, he brushed his lips lightly against Sherlock’s. Though the other man didn’t respond, John did it again and again, breathing out _please_ after each delicate brush of lips.

Soon John grew a touch bolder and firmly pressed his mouth against the other man’s. Sherlock suddenly came back to himself. He eyes snapped open, the look in them fierce. He thrust John’s body away from him, though still kept a grip on the man’s arms. “NO!” he snarled. “This night shouldn’t have happened and it won’t happen again, do you understand? _Never,_ ” Sherlock said aggressively, gripping John’s upper arm hard. John winced at Sherlock’s sudden hostility, a stark difference between the quiet closeness they had had just moments before. “I should have known you weren’t ready for this. Do not ask me again to go out on your own. It will be _my_ decision when you are ready. _If_ you are ever ready.” 

With that, they went home. Neither man said a word during the walk back or for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t until John was preparing to go to sleep that he finally spoke.

“I’m not sorry, you know. For what happened tonight.” Sherlock didn’t look up from where he had been for hours, unmoving on the couch, lost in thought, though John could tell he was listening. “I wanted to do it. I needed to know.”

As John turned to leave, Sherlock replied nearly inaudibly, “And now you know.” With that, John left and climbed the stairs up to his room, the sitting room silent once more. Sherlock returned to his thoughts on the evening and the choice that John had made tonight. Now John knew. He knew what it was like to take a human life and enjoy it. It was a hard road back from that, one Sherlock still had to fight against. He could only hope that he had enough strength to help John and not be pulled under himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! I didn't forget about all of you amazing readers! I finally finally got this chapter to cooperate with me today.
> 
> This isn't thoroughly proofread because I can't look at this chapter any longer. If you notice any mistakes or annoying repetitions please let me know! :)

Sherlock tightly gripped the back of John’s neck and yanked him off the compliant human mere minutes after he had first begun to drink. For weeks he had been doing this, but John took it in stride. He understood why Sherlock didn’t trust him to pull off on his own anymore. He needn’t have been so overly cautious however. John had every intention of leaving the humans alive. For now at least. The problem was that while he did desire to kill them, he wanted to do it with Sherlock. Despite how angry he was at the beginning of the whole mess of becoming a vampire, John was not only accustomed to it now, but he wanted more out of it. He was no longer angry with Sherlock nor did he have any intention of ever separating himself from the man again. Sherlock had told him that he would be able to leave once he was trustworthy to not kill humans, but now he couldn’t imagine being apart from Sherlock for an hour, let alone a lifetime. 

Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted from him. Or at least he thought he did. He knew that John desired a physical relationship with him, and one that involved killing humans. What he didn’t know was that John had been seriously considering bonding with Sherlock, sharing their blood and binding the two men together forever. Sherlock couldn’t fathom the possibility that John would want such a thing after what he had done to him.

But John wanted to bond with Sherlock, but he wanted to do it under his terms. He knew that Sherlock didn’t want John to leave, that much was obvious from the moment John woke up for the first time, over a year ago, after dying in an alley in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock couldn’t live without John, and John didn’t want to live without Sherlock. But John wanted more than that. He wanted to feel powerful again. To revel in the moments when he could feel human life slipping away as their blood slid down his throat. He wanted that, and he wanted it with Sherlock. He wanted to drain a human and then have Sherlock drink his blood, warmed by his temporarily beating heart. He wanted to pull Sherlock into his arms and bite into his flesh and taste Sherlock’s blood again.

He knew it was wrong. He knew that Sherlock had been addicted to killing humans, that he was treading dangerous territory. But he just didn’t care. He wanted it. Sherlock wanted it. So John had to take the step, to push Sherlock in the direction he wanted him to go and pray that the man would follow him.

Which led to this night. This particular night when John could tell that Sherlock was about to yank him off of the man he was drinking from, he sucked in a mouthful but did not swallow it. Instead, when Sherlock grabbed him by the back of his neck, John swung around to face him and crushed his lips against the taller man’s.

John forced a mouthful of blood into Sherlock’s mouth, chasing it with his tongue, which he slid along Sherlock’s before retreating again, though still keeping a grip on his waist, allowing Sherlock to savor the fresh blood in his mouth for the first time in many many years. Sherlock’s eyes slid shut as he bent his head back, stretching his neck, allowing the blood to slip down his throat. He slowly, reverently licked the remaining blood off his lips. John slowly slid a hand around Sherlock’s neck, fingertips lightly drawing lazy patterns, waiting for Sherlock to come back from wherever his mind had taken him. A few moments later, Sherlock’s slightly glazed over eyes snapped back to John’s. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered. His pupils were blown wide as his gaze bore into John’s eyes, his hands reaching up to cradle John’s face, resting their foreheads together. He clenched his eyes shut, a pained expression on his face as he wrestled with what to do next. “John,” he repeated.

“Yes,” John breathed before closing the gap between their lips. The kiss started slow and tentatively. John didn’t want Sherlock to suddenly shove him away like he had last time. He didn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock but rather convince him that he wanted this, and to know that Sherlock wanted this as much as he did. John felt Sherlock’s tongue swipe gently along his lips so he opened his mouth, granting access. Their tongues slid against each other, wet and hot, the slight metallic taste of human blood present in both of their mouths. The kiss was slow, but passionate and deep.

Sherlock slowly ended the kiss, resting his forehead against John’s once again, breathing in his scent. His eyes slowly opened but John saw he wasn’t looking at him, but rather at the man John had been drinking from, leaning against the brick wall, oblivious of what had happened to him.

_Young, early thirties. Clothing too big for him. Second hand. Pale skin, paler than it should be even in England. Eyes slightly sunken in. Dark circles below them. Track marks on his left antecubital. Drugs. Family, unlikely to have any, estranged if he does. Friends, few in number and addicts themselves. No one important would notice his disappearance. John chose him for this reason. He chose a kill. He's been choosing kills, waiting for me to let him do it. No. Waiting for me to do it with him. He's choosing me._

"Sherlock?" John quietly questioned, breaking the other man away from his deductions. 

"One time," Sherlock whispered, never looking away from the young man and the blood that was seeping through the cracks between his fingers where he was subconsciously holding onto the wound there. 

John lit up at these words. "Yes," he said enthusiastically.

"Just this one time, John, only once," Sherlock pressed.

"Just this once," John affirmed.

"Let's take him home." Sherlock pushed himself away from John and quickly moved to the human's side before tracing a finger through the blood on the man's hand and licking it off the reddened digit.

***

Where things had felt oddly slow in the alley, everything seemed to speed up the moment they set foot in their flat, human in tow. Sherlock quickly guided the human into his bedroom, dragging John by the hand behind him. Once in the room, Sherlock threw his coat off, letting the fabric pool in a heap on the floor and dragged John into a hard, bruising kiss, which was eagerly returned. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Sherlock asked, panting against John's mouth. They both knew that Sherlock wasn't talking about taking the human's life. Both men knew where this night was headed. Sherlock was asking if John was sure he wanted to bond with him. He wouldn't be able to ask John later when they were both high on their kill and full of blood to care about anything other than the beating of their hearts and the feel of their lips and bodies pressing together. 

"Yes, I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything, Sherlock," John replied readily, pressing his lips against Sherlock's once again, snaking his tongue into the taller man's mouth. 

"There's a change... A nearly physical change. We'll never be able to be apart from each other, never want to be. There's no going back from this, John." Sherlock looked almost nervous. 

John just chuckled. "There was no going back from the moment I stepped into that lab at St. Bart's five years ago. We've _always_ been bonded together."

At that, Sherlock growled in arousal and crowded John against the door, melding their bodies together. John gasped as he felt Sherlock’s erection straining against his own. He pinned John's wrists by his head while he dragged his the small points of his sharpened teeth along John's neck, leaving the skin unharmed, while inhaling deeply. "I haven't tasted you since you were human."

"Will I taste different?" John asked, panting heavily from the effort of not biting into Sherlock's neck to spill his blood over his lips. 

"Yes. You'll taste better. You'll taste...," He licked a stripe up the flesh on John's neck, "more."

John was writhing against Sherlock's body. Every fibre in him was screaming at him to rip at Sherlock's flesh, to spill his blood and bathe in it, drink it, take him in it. And every part of him was screaming at Sherlock to do the same to him. 

"After," Sherlock rumbled, reading John's unvoiced thoughts in the man's every move. He worried John's earlobe between his lips, grinning when John groaned at the sensation. Turning away from John, Sherlock faced the human who was in his room. The man was weak from the wound in his neck now. He hadn’t lost too much blood, there would still be plenty for him and John, but the blood loss combined with the drugs in his system, his body was starting to shut down. He had collapsed into the chair in the corner, and his breathing was a bit ragged. He was still under John’s thrall from earlier though, so he had not even thought about running away from his predators. 

Sherlock stalked over to the chair and pulled the man to his feet, supporting him with his own arms with the man’s legs threatened to give out. He moved to stand behind him while John walked forward to take his place in front. Then, they sunk their teeth in on opposite side’s of his neck. The man’s heart was already weak, even without what John had done to him in the alley. He would only last a minute or two now. John drank slowly, only enough to get his heart beating again. He wanted Sherlock to have more. It had been so long since Sherlock had had fresh human blood that John knew he needed it more. He reached up and cradled Sherlock’s head, weaving his fingers through the curly locks. 

John could feel Sherlock sinking his teeth in even harder, biting again, trying to widen the wound to increase the flow of blood into his mouth. John could feel the man’s heartbeat getting weaker and weaker. It was barely there now. John felt euphoric. He had been missing this for weeks and now it was even better than he had anticipated because now Sherlock was here with him. 

When the man’s heart finally stopped and his blood had all been drained, John released his hold on the human and on Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock was not so quick to release the human however. He licked all of the blood away from the man’s neck where he had bit into it, and then the side where John had bit until it was clean of every last drop of the hot, delicious blood.

When he had finished, he let the body fall unceremoniously to the floor. He was too focused on John, his pupils blown wide, blood rimming his mouth. His breathing was heavy as he looked at John hungrily. The other man met his gaze, unafraid, ready for what was coming next. Sherlock launched himself at John, throwing him on the bed. He climbed on top of him, holding John’s head between his hands while John’s hands gripped his waist tightly, pushing their bodies together. They stared at each other, breathing each other’s air for a long time before John finally nodded. Sherlock growled with want, with need, and finally sunk his teeth into John’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... Sooooo I'm really not entirely sure what's going to happen in the next chapter. I keep going back and forth on if I want there to be any smut in this story or if I want to gloss over it and I really can't decide. Obviously, everyone is going to vote for smut, but I'm just really not sure. I know this chapter pretty much blatantly says that there's going to be smut next, but that's really just there to leave the option there for me if I want to take it. Don't be too surprised/disappointed if it gets glossed over!
> 
> Also, if you haven't noticed yet, John and Sherlock's relationship is totally fucked up. Just felt like stating the obvious here. Yep. The things I do to lead to more angst. That you can definitely expect. Smut, not so sure it can be expected. You'll find out when I write the next chapter. Whenever that is... I'll try not to take quite so long next time!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so before jumping into notes, I want to provide a brief warning that this chapter contains smut (yes!), but as we are dealing with vampires here, things get... bloody. This chapter can be skipped without missing any plot, if you are feeling a bit squeamish. I'm not sure how bad it really is (even though I wrote it... I guess I just can't see it after writing it so I don't know how to judge it). Just a lot of blood drinking and biting and such. But hey. Vampires. What can you do? 
> 
> But yes, this chapter is pure smut. And blood....
> 
> Right. So when I starting writing this chapter I had made up my mind and resolved to not have smut in this story. And then this happened... I'm really not entirely sure how. But apparently the story demanded it in order for the bonding to actually work the way I wanted it to. I couldn't figure out a way to properly gloss over it, so I just decided to run with it. So yeah. I tried. It's my first time writing anything like this, so I hope I did alright!

John's blood poured out into Sherlock's mouth, hot, thick, and delicious. If Sherlock had thought John had tasted spectacular as a human, it was nothing compared to how he tasted now. He moved his mouth away from John's neck and pulled the man into another kiss, allowing John to taste himself on Sherlock's tongue. John's hands on his waist gripped tighter, squeezing his bones with a frightening strength that would have easily snapped a human's bones. 

"Let me taste you," John said, his voice rough with desire. Sherlock growled with delight when John gripped his wrists and easily flipped them over so that John was now on top, pressing Sherlock into the mattress, holding his wrists down by his head. He licked a stripe Sherlock's cheek, blood smearing there where it wiped off from the corners of his mouth. Then he bit into Sherlock's neck, just as Sherlock had done to him. It had been over a year since he had been allowed to drink from Sherlock and it was even better than he had remembered. Back when he was first turned he was so overwhelmed by the taste of any blood that he hadn't recognized how singularly delicious Sherlock's was. Maybe this was one of the physical changes that Sherlock had mentioned about bonding, but either way, he didn't care. Sherlock was his now and he could have his blood like this anytime he wanted now.

Sherlock struggled to get his wrists free, but when he did, he immediately grabbed at John's shirt, ripping the fabric away, moving his mouth to the bite on John's neck once more, lapping at the blood seeping out. He rocked his hips up, grinding his erection into John's, indicating exactly what he wanted from the man above him. John pulled away from Sherlock's neck in order to plunder Sherlock's mouth with his tongue once more, as Sherlock set about trying to divest him of his trousers, which turned out to be rather difficult as John was grinding his hips into Sherlock's, unwilling to relent from the pressure for one moment even if it meant being rid of a layer of clothing keeping them apart. 

"John," Sherlock growled, pulling his mouth away from John's, growing impatient with the amount of clothing still on the body of the man on top of him. John finally cooperated, and tore away the shirt Sherlock was wearing. He accidentally smeared his hand through Sherlock's blood, and was now leaving smudgy red handprints all over Sherlock's body wherever he touched him. John thought he looked gorgeous covered in red. 

Sherlock pushed John away so that he could finally remove the rest of their clothing. When they had done so, Sherlock fell on top of John, groaning at the feel of John's skin pressing against his from head to toe. With one more lick at the bite on John’s neck, Sherlock began to move his way down John’s body. He pressed wet, red kisses to John’s collarbone, licking the skin, delighting in the taste. He dragged his teeth over the muscles of John’s upper arms, lightly breaking the skin, leaving long lines of red running down the limbs. He bit into John’s side, drinking a little blood from the wound, kissed his stomach, licked his nipples, and nuzzled into the coarse hair of his groin. He bit into the outside of John’s left thigh, spilling the blood but not drinking it. He added a few more bites to John’s legs before moving up to the femoral artery of John’s right leg, biting in and taking a deep drink. Then finally he dragged his tongue along John’s straining erection, staining it with blood. 

John moaned and writhed in perverse pleasure the whole time. Every lick, every kiss, every blood-spilling bite made his heart pound in his chest, still beating from the human they had killed together. John had never seen Sherlock look so beautiful than when he had dropped the dead human and turned to face him with such hunger and lust in his eyes. A shout of pleasure escaped his bloodstained lips when Sherlock’s mouth finally engulfed his erection, sucking hard, while his fingers dug into John’s hips. John hips bucked up into Sherlock’s mouth of their own accord, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. If anything he just sucked harder, swirling his tongue around John, now digging his fingernails into John’s hips, breaking the skin, releasing even more blood onto the already severely stained sheets.

“Sher— Sherlock!” John gasped, digging his hands into the other man’s dark curls in order to pull him off before he came. Sherlock immediately moved back up to John’s neck and licked away the blood that was spilling out there. John groaned and dragged his fingernails down Sherlock’s back, taking his turn to spill blood. Sherlock pressed his body down against John’s again and began to rut against him, rubbing their erections together. John bit into Sherlock’s arm that right by his head, drinking deeply while he gripped Sherlock’s arse in order to press them together even harder, making Sherlock move faster above him. Sherlock’s rhythm was beginning to falter and John knew he was close, right on in the edge. He reached a bloodstained hand between them, gripping their erections together. He pulled quick and hard, desperate to watch Sherlock’s face as he came.

“John!” Sherlock cried, moving his hips faster, pressing hard against John. Soon, his body started trembling as he finally tumbled over the edge and came, hot liquid spilling over their stomachs, before John quickly followed moments later with Sherlock’s name on his lips. Sherlock was in awe of the man beneath him, covered in both of their blood, so strong and exquisite beneath him.

Sherlock collapsed on top of John, breathing heavily, not caring at all about the sticky mess he just further spread over their bellies. They were sticky from all of the blood anyway; one more bodily fluid wasn’t going to make any difference. He could feel John gently licking at his neck, savoring the blood, savoring the moment and what they had just done a little bit longer.

After they caught their breath and John was done cleaning off Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock shifted the majority of his weight off of John, though still remained snugly tucked into his side, throwing one possessive arm over the man’s waist. John had his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s body, hand twisting up to play with his curls. 

Sherlock had his face buried in John’s neck, the side without the bite in it. He pressed a kiss to it while twining their legs together. “Do you feel any different?” he asked quietly.

John thought for a moment before answering. He pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head, continuing to comb his fingers through the locks, and finally said, “I feel whole.” With that, he buried his nose in Sherlock's hair, breathing in this perfect scent as the two men fell asleep in each other's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yeah. That was just a little bit gross. I felt a little uneasy writing it, wondering if it was too much, but it kind of just has to be this way. Again, as you have learned before, in this story, sex and blood go hand in hand. In my head, this scene is pretty disturbingly blood, sheets soaked, both men covered in each other's blood, ew gross, but hot at the same time? Again, vampires. It's how they do things (or how they do them in this story at least!).
> 
> Vampires are scary to me. I don't do nice little sparkly vegetarian vampires. That doesn't make sense to me. And as a result, this happened. They're predators to humans who live off their blood! That's terrifying!
> 
> Okay, I feel like I'm starting to defend myself for this chapter when I probably don't even need to.... Just me being crazy again!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and were creeped out by it (because that was also a goal of mine). Again, stating the obvious, John and Sherlock's relationship is totally fucked up.
> 
> Also! (Last note I swear... I swear my notes on this chapter are longer than the actual story...) THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR WONDERFUL COMMENTS YOU ARE ALL SO AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU AND READ EVERY SINGLE COMMENT YOU ALL LEAVE ME AND THEY MAKE ME SO HAPPY AND I SQUEAL WITH DELIGHT EVERY TIME I GET A NEW ONE. So yes, please continue leaving comments. They brighten my day and motivate me to keep on writing! Really, you're comments are hugely motivating for me. I think if I hadn't gotten any comments I would have dropped this story each time I got stuck in what to do next, but instead you're comments are driving the story forward and I keep coming up with new ideas that will ultimately make it longer than I had initially planned on this story being.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock woke the next morning, wrapped around John’s back, blond hair tickling his nose. A smile played across his lips as he pressed a kiss to the back of John’s neck. The man in front of him stirred a little, but did not wake up yet. Sherlock saw that the bite in John’s neck had closed and was replaced with a beautiful red and purple bruise, which would, much to Sherlock’s disappointment, fade in an hour or two.

The two men were still covered in blood and come, their skin sticking together from the mess. The entire room smelled of blood and sex and Sherlock thought it was intoxicating. He started licking away the dried blood on John’s shoulder, nibbling lightly as the man began to drift into wakefulness. John's body fought to stay asleep for a little longer before he finally groaned and stretched and tried to blink away the sleep blurring his eyes. Sherlock smiled warmly down at him when John finally turned his head to look back at him. He looked nearly confused for a moment before the night previously washed back through his memory and he returned the smile. Tilting his head back a little more, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s then said, “Good morning,” his voice rough from sleep.

“Morning,” Sherlock grinned, rolling John onto his back, pinning him down on the mattress with more kisses. His hands roamed all over John, who groaned into Sherlock’s mouth. Soon, however, John pulled away from Sherlock, smiled, and said “Shower.”

“Out of the question,” Sherlock teased. He moved down John’s body and started licking at the dried blood coating his chest. John chuckled and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, down his neck, over his shoulder, to trace the line of his arm before linking their fingers together. "You look gorgeous like this and I refuse to let you ruin it.”

“Well I sure don't feel gorgeous," he smirked. "We’re sticky and bloody, and I’m sore from all of your damned bites—“

“You weren't complaining about those last night,” commented Sherlock playfully, who continued his attempts at cleaning John himself with his tongue, flicking one of John's nipples with his tongue, which caused the man beneath him to take a sharp intake of breath

“God no,” John beamed. “That was brilliant. But nevertheless, now I’m sore and want a hot shower and I want it with you.”

"But this is so much more fun." Sherlock nipped at John's upper arm, breaking the skin, and licked away the blood beading up from the tiny cut.

"Oh there's plenty of fun to be had in the shower," John replied, heat in his eyes. Sherlock froze at the lustful look John was giving him before springing to action, yanking John out of bed and across the room. John paused for a moment at the door though when his eyes caught on the body of the man they had killed last night, still slumped on the floor where Sherlock had unceremoniously dropped him.

"We should probably take care of that..."

"I'll do it later," Sherlock said, pushing John out of the room into the hallway. "You were so insistent upon this shower, I hate to distract you from it any longer. Plus, you promised me fun." He winked and started pushing at John again.

John laughed again and allowed himself to be herded into the bathroom. He pulled back the shower curtain before turning the taps. He had never seen Sherlock like this before, this playful and giddy, not even before he was turned, before Sherlock had jumped off Bart's, back before... everything. He hadn't even known it was possible for him to act like this. Seeing Sherlock like this now, he could no longer regret anything that had happened in the past few years. Everything had been leading up to this and now he wouldn't take anything back even if he had the choice. He and Sherlock were bound together forever and John couldn't be more pleased. He could feel the intense connection they had formed between them last night and it was unlike anything he had ever felt for another person. He had been in love before, truly deeply in love, but even those instances paled in comparison to this. It wasn't just the sex or the bliss of a new kind of relationship between them; it was something that ran deep within both of their hearts. Sherlock was the other half of his soul, he was an extension of his own body, another set of limbs. When John moved, Sherlock moved, and vise versa. 

Sherlock moved up behind him, wrapping one arm around his chest, trailing soft, sensual kisses up the side of his neck, while holding one hand under the spray to test the heat of the water. John closed his eyes to enjoy the feeling of Sherlock naked and pressed up against his back, skin on skin. He held onto Sherlock's forearm with both hands until Sherlock deemed the water hot enough and stepped under the stream. 

The sight of Sherlock standing under the hot water, steam rising up around him as he ran his hands through his hair to thoroughly wet the unruly locks, while rivulets of blood ran down his body like little red rivers was a sight John thought he would never forget, no matter how long he lived. Pale and lithe with lean muscle covering every inch of his body, Sherlock was the most beautiful creature John had ever set eyes upon.

He pulled Sherlock's head down to meet his, covering the taller man's mouth with his own in a soft kiss, slipping his tongue into Sherlock's mouth to taste him. Sherlock soon grew impatient with the slow pace and deepened the kiss, pulling John flush against him. The two men fought for dominance of the kiss, tongues battling each other, hands pushing and pulling whatever they could reach until John finally broke away from Sherlock's unrelenting mouth. Sherlock was internally gleeful that he had won their little game, until John plunged his teeth into the area where Sherlock's neck and shoulder met, and then all thoughts of his victory flew out of his head as the euphoric pain swept through his body. 

Blood began to pour out into John's mouth, but the man immediately moved his mouth back to Sherlock's after wetting it in the blood, allowing the taller man to taste himself. Sherlock groaned into John’s mouth and then gasped when John grasped his hips hard and turned him around so that they were back to front, John pressing his body against Sherlock’s back. “I did promise you some fun, didn’t I?” John whispered hungrily in Sherlock’s ear, his voice gravelly with lust, causing a shiver to run down the taller man’s spine despite the intense heat from the water flowing down their bodies.

John trailed his hands up Sherlock’s sides and over his chest while his tongue laved at the reopened wound on Sherlock’s neck. One hand stayed at Sherlock’s chest to tease and pinch his nipples while the other trailed down to grasp Sherlock’s rapidly hardening cock. Sherlock threw his head back and groaned again when John began to stroke him, the pressure he used was perfect. With John’s hand on his cock and John’s teeth buried in his neck, Sherlock had never been so turned on in his life.

When John started to rub his own erection against his arse, Sherlock was done for. He was overwhelmed by sensation and heat and John, John, John. He bent forward slightly and braced his hands against the tiled wall in front of him for fear of his knees giving out; John curved his own body to contour around Sherlock’s while he continued to rut against him. John timed his strokes of his hand with his thrusts, his mouth somehow never leaving Sherlock’s neck despite all of the movement. Sherlock could feel his orgasm coming on strong as he thrust into John’s hand, growling at John to go faster and harder, until he was finally coming all over the other man’s hand. John moved his hand away from Sherlock’s cock and onto his hip to keep him in place as he continued to rub his erection over his arse until his orgasm finally swept over him as well.

When John had finished, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand from off his waist, pulling it up to his mouth and bit hard into the wrist, desperate for John’s blood. After Sherlock had drank enough to satisfy his intense need, John started laughing. Sherlock looked at him quizzically, so John said, struggling to get his words out for laughing so hard, “We were supposed to be getting clean, not making more of a mess.” He descended into another fit of giggles, pulling Sherlock along with him this time. The hot water had washed away most of the mess from the previous night, but now there was fresh blood smearing both of them and Sherlock was covered in both of their come. 

“Hey, this was all your idea if I recall correctly,” chortled Sherlock jovially, his deep laughter echoing off the tiles of the shower. “I will not be held responsible for your actions.” John could only grin in return of Sherlock’s teasing and wrap him arms around the man’s waist, enjoying the feel of his warm, slippery body. Sherlock tilted his head down to rest it against John’s until their laughter eventually subsided. John’s eyes were closed, soaking in the blissful moment, then Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to the man’s lips, soft and warm and full of joy.

***

Sherlock left the flat for a few hours to dispose of the human they had killed, and when he came back, he blew into the flat in a flurry, throwing his coat and scarf off and into a nearby chair, not bothering to hang them up, just to spread his annoyance at the world indignantly around a little more.

"God I miss Baker Street," Sherlock complained, flopping down onto the sofa, his head resting on John’s lap.

"We could move back, you know," John responded, sipping his tea. "I _can_  control myself when it matters. I won't harm Mrs. Hudson."

"I know that," Sherlock said as he sat up a bit, snatched John’s tea away from him, and began to drink it as though John had actually made it for him. 

"Then let's move back. This was all supposed to be temporary anyway. And living under Mycroft's roof has had you bursting at the seams since the moment we set foot here. Let's go home." John began carding his hands through Sherlock's hair. He noticed a small smear of blood on the man's neck, just below his right ear. John didn't know if it belonged to him or Sherlock but he liked it. It made Sherlock look strong and wild and perfect. He decided not to tell Sherlock it was there until they needed to leave the flat. Then he would lick and suck it off and leave Sherlock squirming for more.

Sherlock didn’t respond right away, but instead adopted his “thinking face” as John liked to call it. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t trust John around Mrs. Hudson, that wasn’t the problem at all. It was that he could no longer trust _himself_ around her. Going out that day had truly tested his self control and he had very nearly lost it. It had taken everything in him to not rip into every human he passed on the streets on his way back to the flat. He could practically hear the blood pumping in their veins, smell the thick metallic scent of the one thing he craved more than anything in the world that he had denied himself the pleasure of for so long. He had barely been able to walk past a human without massacring them all. Living with one was out of the question, no matter how much he missed and Baker Street. He couldn’t risk her when he wasn’t sure of himself. 

The kill from the previous night had been euphoric for him. It had been so long since he had tasted fresh human blood, so long since he felt alive in a way that only killing can make him feel. John had agreed to killing together just the once, but now that they had done it, Sherlock wanted more. Last night he had truly thought he would be able to only do it once, just for John, and then go back to his usual routine. Now he wasn’t so sure. 

“John,” he said, breaking away from him thoughts to look up at John. The man had taken back his tea while Sherlock had been thinking and was now absorbed in the book he was reading. Sherlock must have been lost to the world for quite some time. John tilted his eyebrows up to indicate that he was listening, but did not look away from the page. Sherlock sat up and snatched the book away from John before repeating his name again to make sure that he was truly paying attention.

John turned his eyes toward him and Sherlock saw nothing but adoration coming from them and suddenly he wanted to give this man everything he wanted. Sherlock couldn’t have John want for anything in this world if it was within his power to give it to him, and Sherlock knew beyond a doubt that what John wanted most was to feel the thrill and power and life that only came from a kill. He leaned forward, kissed John softly, then pulled back to whisper in his ear, “Let’s do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. So while I initially had planned no smut, I have clearly changed my mind and now there are two chapters in a row with it. Oh well. What can you do. It was fluffy and fun to write and dammit if this story didn't need a bit of fluff even if it was still a bit not okay given how nonchalant they are about a dead body hanging out in the bedroom while they sleep...


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft, as expected, arrived that afternoon. Sherlock rolled his eyes when Mycroft stepped through the door without even so much as a courteous knock. His brother’s face was stern as he took in his surroundings and it was obvious that he knew what he and John had been up to the previous evening.

“John, Sherlock.” He nodded to each of them, still lounging together on the sofa from earlier. “I suppose congratulations of sorts are in order, little brother,” said Mycroft tersely, though it was evident that he was feeling anything but congratulatory for his brother finally finding someone to bond with.

“No need to be jealous, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat the name.

“And yet,” Mycroft continued, not even blinking at Sherlock’s insult, “the circumstances under which you finally bonded with Mr. Watson here are less than ideal.” Sherlock didn’t say anything to that.

Deciding to take his leave and leave the two brothers to it, John rose from the sofa. Sherlock snapped his head to him at John’s movement, “What are you doing?” he demanded, rising to his feet as well, following John as he crossed to grab his jacket from its hook next to the door.

“Going out for a bit. You don’t need me in the middle of this.” He slid his hands up Sherlock’s arms to comfort him, before resting them on either side of his face. “Text me when you’re done, alright?” Sherlock nodded, holding onto John’s waist, and then John pressed a light kiss to his lips before slipping out the door.

“How could you be so foolish, Sherlock?” Mycroft hissed as soon as John was gone. “Do you have any idea how much I did the last time you decided to go on a killing spree in order to keep the Council from you?”

“I am aware, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, gritting his teeth, watching John walk down the street from the window, already feeling a sense of loss at his short absence.

“ _Then what do you think you’re doing?_ ” he bellowed, his eyes black with rage.

Unfazed by the outrage of his brother, Sherlock continued to watch John until he was gone from his sight, then replied simply, “It’s just one man, Mycroft, and no one that anyone will notice is suddenly missing.”

“Don’t treat me like a fool,” he growled. “We both know perfectly well that it will not be just this once.”

Sherlock finally turned around to face the other man. “It will be different this time. We’re doing things right.”

“There is no _right_ with you. You have proven that you are incapable of controlling yourself."

"Vampires kill humans all the time, Mycroft! Why am I the only one who isn't actually allowed to do it?" He snarled, exasperated.

"Not everyone nearly massacres an entire city. Times have changed, Sherlock. The police aren't as inept as they were 100 years ago, the last time you went on a killing _rampage_. You have slipped over the years, but now things are different. We  _have_ to be more careful now."

"I  _am_ being more careful now. It's different now!"

"What could possibly be so different this time?”

“This time I have John," Sherlock snapped.

“John has been a part of this world for little over a year. What makes you think that he could possibly keep you under control?” Mycroft sneered with disbelief.

“Because I care too much about him to let this turn into the problem it was last time. I won’t let it come to that. I won’t be careless with his life as I was once with mine.”

“This is needlessly reckless, Sherlock. John was doing just fine before—“

“He needs this,” Sherlock interrupted. “I did this to him and he needs this and I can’t say no, not this time.”

“Sherlock—“

“What are you going to do, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, rounding on his brother. “Turn me in to the Council? Turn John in? I know you too well for your idle threats to mean anything. You wouldn’t be so careless with my life and now that we’ve bonded I know you wouldn’t with John’s. I never asked for your opinions or help with the matter, so just leave.”

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Mycroft finally sighed in resignation, knowing his brother’s stubbornness was in full force today, and made his way to the door. “I hope you know what you are doing, Sherlock. Choose the humans carefully and get rid of the bodies as quietly as you can." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the obvious instructions, but didn't say a word. "I will do what I can for you to keep this quiet, but as you know, there is only so much influence I have.” With that, he left. Sherlock was at the window again, texting John to return to the flat. His body was starting to seize up with need for John and he would be helpless to control it until the other man finally came back.

***  
 _Two Months Later_

With a full belly and a still faintly beating heart, John dug his keys out of his pocket and climbed the five steps up to the door of their flat. In the two months since their first kill, John and Sherlock’s relationship had grown deeper and more passionate than John ever could have imagined. Sherlock finally let John go out on his own, trusting the man not to kill. That was something they did together, as partners, as brothers, as lovers. They had killed three people together and every time John was struck by how utterly gorgeous, insatiable, and animalistic Sherlock was after a kill.

They were not able to do it every night, only every couple of weeks so as not to attract attention, but John found that he did not mind at all. He was more than able to control himself out on his own because he truly had no desire to kill if Sherlock was not there with him. Sherlock wasn’t going out with John in the evenings anymore, having told John that he was more than capable of doing it on his own now. John knew it was because Sherlock didn’t want to go out if there wasn’t going to be a kill, that he didn’t want to put temptation in his own path — he still wouldn’t even drink fresh blood, only bagged, if there wasn’t going to be a kill —  but John couldn’t help the melancholy that washed over him whenever he went anywhere without Sherlock.

The only times they were separated was when John went out to hunt and each time was just as painful as the last. In the beginning, for a months after John was turned, he had felt nearly suffocated by Sherlock’s presence, never getting any time to himself. But now that they had bonded, any time John had to himself was torturous. His whole body ached to be back beside Sherlock’s from the moment they parted, even for very short periods of time. The bonding was a far more profound connection than John could have anticipated, but he would never regret it. Sherlock was his and he was Sherlock’s.

John turned his key in the lock, opened the door, and froze in the doorway. There was someone here with Sherlock. In the year since they had moved to this flat the only other person to cross the threshold other than himself and Sherlock was Mycroft, and it was definitely not him upstairs. Neighbors were right out, this was Sherlock he was talking about — he would never abide by strangers trying to make small talk at him.

He heard a woman’s coy laughter from behind the closed door just before the sound transformed into a moan of pleasure. John thrust the door open and his eyes widened in shock at the scene before him. Stretched out on their sofa, Sherlock was entangled with a woman, who was writhing beneath the man that John knew to be _his_. There was a bite in her thigh wrapped around Sherlock’s hips which he ground into hers. One of his hands trailed down her legs and up her skirt. She gasped, her eyes fluttering to close in pleasure, and John didn't have to guess exactly what Sherlock was doing to her. 

“What the fuck is going on, Sherlock?” John exclaimed. Sherlock licked a stripe up the woman’s neck before turning his head to look at John, not even bothering remove his hand or at the very least to look guilty. She dragged his mouth along his neck, leaving wet kisses on the flesh.

“Oh good, you’re finally home,” Sherlock grinned at John, who was still frozen in the doorway trying to make sense of what was going on in front of him. The woman continued to writhe beneath Sherlock. Momentarily distracted by her, Sherlock growled and ground his hips down again, rubbing his clothed erection into her and biting into her arm, spilling her blood which he greedily lapped up.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, desperate for an explanation.

Sensing John’s urgency, Sherlock gracefully rose from the couch and went to John.

“Who is she?” John demanded, as Sherlock pulled him into his arms and began placing small, featherlight kisses on his neck.

“Don’t sound so panicked. She’s no one, as always.”

“You did this without me? We're supposed to do this together. We agreed, only together. ”

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” Sherlock scoffed, pulling at John’s earlobe with his lips. "We were waiting for you.” He trailed his hands down John's sides to grip his hips as he continued to kiss and lick at his ears. John’s body was starting to succumb to Sherlock’s ministrations, but his mind still wanted an explanation.

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you were practically having sex with her on our sofa.” His arms went up to wrap around Sherlock’s waist of their own accord. He apparently didn’t any control over his own body when it came to Sherlock.

“I got bored. You were taking too long, but I didn’t want to start without you, so I found a way to pass the time.”

John glanced over at the woman on the other side of the room. She had calmed considerably since Sherlock had gotten off of her, and now she was just as pliant and unaware as each of the other humans they had brought back to their flat. Her arm and her thigh were trickling blood, but she didn’t seem to notice at all. John still felt a sense of awe that vampires were able to control humans in this way so easily. All fight or flight senses were gone

“Looks like you did start without me,” he glared at the man wrapped around him, even as his body relaxed further against him.

Sherlock shrugged and grinned, “I got peckish.” He swept down and took John’s mouth with his own, pushing his tongue past John’s lips, and suddenly John knew he was done for. His mind went blissfully blank as he tasted the woman’s blood in Sherlock’s mouth and he thrust his hands into Sherlock’s hair and pulled him more forcefully to him to deepen the kiss. John was less than thrilled about what Sherlock had done this evening, but he had a hard time denying this man anything, especially now that they had bonded.

Sherlock nicked his tongue on one of John's sharpened teeth, something he hadn't done in nearly a year, and swiped the blood along John's tongue. John growled with desire, the memory of their first kiss washing over him, and pushed Sherlock back towards the couch and the oblivious human woman, climbing onto him, and biting into his neck, while Sherlock started ripping his clothes away. 

***

"Are we going to talk about this?"

John was lying on the floor with Sherlock's head resting on his chest. He ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, making the man relax further into him. The woman's body was lying a few feet away from them, cold and still. Both men were naked and covered in hers and each other's blood, sated and full in what should have been postcoital bliss. John couldn’t stop thinking about this turn of events, however. They had decided that they would do every part of the killing together, even down to the choosing of the human. To find that Sherlock had left him out of that part, stung John a bit. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” replied Sherlock cooly, snuggling into John’s chest further, inhaling deeply the scent of blood and sex and John.

John just sighed, but continued to scratch Sherlock’s head lightly. “Boredom isn’t a good enough reason for that, Sherlock.”

“Is this because you think I was going to have sex with her?” asked Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “Because, as you know, I wasn’t having sex with her.”

“You practically were. If I had come home even five minutes later, I would have walked in on a very different scene.”

“John—“

“But this isn’t about that, no matter what my feelings are on the matter. My point is, we’re supposed to be doing this together. That’s what we agreed upon when—“

“We did do it together,” he snapped. His body was suddenly tense against John’s. “As I said before, she was still very much _alive_ when you came home.” 

“You know what I mean, Sherlock,” said John, giving Sherlock’s shoulders a little squeeze, to try and dissipate some of the tension. After a moment’s hesitation he asked, “Why did you do this without me?”

Frustrated at the interrogation, Sherlock extrapolated himself from John’s arms and pushed himself to his feet. “What are you, my keeper?” he shouted. “Did Mycroft put you up to this? Did he tell you to keep an eye on me?”

John hoisted himself up as well. The conversation had quickly gotten out of hand. “No, Sherlock. That’s— this isn’t about him, alright? It’s just about us.” He reached for Sherlock, but the man jerked away.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he spat. “I don’t need a handler or a babysitter. I’ve been a vampire a hell of a lot longer than you have, John, so don’t presume to tell _me_ how we should be doing things.” Unwilling to hear anything else John had to say, Sherlock quickly retreated to their bedroom and bolted the door, locking the other man out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sherlock....
> 
>  
> 
> Also, please leave comments! I read each and every one of them and a lot of the time, they help me figure out what direction I want to go with the story, as this is truly a WIP and I'm writing each chapter as I go!


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock didn't unlock the door until midmorning. He hasn't dared break into the room because he had feared making Sherlock even more upset. Maybe John was overreacting to what Sherlock had done. He supposed that he didn't really know how things were done, how vampires conducted relationships, and how humans and the killing played into that.

John had been feeling so empty and desperate for Sherlock that as soon as he heard the door unlock, he threw himself into the man's arms the moment he could, hungrily kissing him and clinging to his body. Sometimes he hated how the bond between them made even the most minimal separation unbearable. He pulled back after a moment though when he realized that his affections weren't being returned. He was more than a little hurt, that Sherlock hadn't apparently felt the same pang of loss at having spent the night separated, but he was confused by Sherlock's actions.

"Listen, Sherlock," he began, stepping back a little but still keeping his hands resting on Sherlock's arms, unwilling to be completely without physical contact after the long night. "I'm sorry… about last night. I just… I was confused and I didn't understand— don't understand how things might work sometimes. But it's— it's fine. And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you or make you feel like I was attacking you or something, because I really wasn't."

Sherlock remained silent and unmoving. John couldn't tell if he was just processing the apology or remaining steadfastly stubborn. After a few moments, Sherlock nodded once and brushed a light kiss over John's temple before extrapolating himself from John and silently moving to the sitting room. He grabbed his violin and began to play. John couldn't help but feel chilled by the somber melody that Sherlock was drawing out from the instrument.

Unsure of what to do with himself, but unwilling to leave Sherlock, John settled on the sofa with a book. He couldn't do more than stare at the pages though. He didn't know how to fix this problem, so he could do nothing more than wait for Sherlock to work through it. It was clear that Sherlock had no desire to speak to John, but the fact that he was no longer confining himself to their bedroom gave John a small glimmer of hope. As long as Sherlock wasn’t behind locked doors, John would be at his side.

The music grew increasingly more frustrated and frantic as Sherlock worked out his emotions through the music and soon he was playing nothing more than discordant notes, dragging the bow over the strings in sharp pulls. Knowing that Sherlock's frustration was beginning to overflow, John went to the kitchen to make tea for the both of them. Just as he was walking back into the sitting room with two steaming cups, Sherlock shouted in irritation and abandoned the violin, tossing it onto the sofa. He turned to find John standing there with the mugs and his eyes went cold as he glared at John with loathing.

"I'm going out," he announced, his voice gravelly with disuse and anger. They the first words John had heard him speak since the night before.

John was shocked, unsure, once again, of what to do. "What? Why—"

"Because you're suffocating me!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his arms up. "I can't just sit here and watch you pretend to read and see you cast pitifully concerned glances at me. It's unbearable and I can't breathe!"

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I just don't know what to do!” John shouted in return. “You aren't giving me anything here. I apologized and I'm trying but I don't know how to fix this!"

"Just let me be!” Sherlock growled fiercely. He moved to grab is coat off the hook, roughly pulling it on.

"Right. Okay." They fell into silence as Sherlock buttoned his coat and wound a scarf around his neck. “Do you want me to be here when you get back?" John asked hesitantly. He wanted to go out, to wash the taste of last night out of his mouth with blood, and part of him was hoping that Sherlock might have come with him again, even just for the one night, so that they didn't have to be away from each other any longer.

"I don't fucking care!” he spat. With that he spun on his heel, and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

***

The longer John dwelled on Sherlock's behavior that afternoon, the angrier he became, not only at the man in question, but at himself for letting Sherlock talk to him like that, for letting him be cruel. He felt weak and there was nothing he hated more in the world.

He threw his mug of lukewarm tea against the wall. The ceramic shattered and scattered all over the floor, the tea dripping down the wall to form a puddle on the wood floor. Sherlock had manipulated him last night, coaxing John into placidity and when it hadn't lasted, when John questioned him, he had exploded and tried to turn it around on him. And John had fallen for it. He had actually believed that he needed to be wary and apologetic. He was furious. 

The flat was stifling and he was desperate for some fresh blood to clear his head, to feel his heart beating again, to help relieve the weight pressing down on him. He wanted the hot, sticky blood to run down his throat and wash away everything that happened last night. More than anything he wanted to bury his teeth in Sherlock's flesh, drink his blood, and wrap his whole body around him to move with him on their bed. He hated himself for wanting that right now. Hated that his body called out for Sherlock even when his mind was loathe to the idea. He hated the bonding more than ever in this moment. He needed to get out of the flat, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave in case Sherlock came back.

***

Sherlock didn’t come home for two days.

John had gone out that night, desperate for blood after a couple of days without it and Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he returned. John couldn’t help but think that Sherlock planned his coming back to be when he had finally left the flat for a bit. Sherlock turned his head to look at him when John walked in, but didn’t say a word. John took a few tentative steps toward him. His fury had dissipated over the last two days. He was still upset, but mostly he just ached to be close again after the past two torturous days. After a moment, Sherlock, to John’s surprise, sat up so that John could settle in behind him before leaning back against John’s chest, listening to John’s heart beating faintly.

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s chest, squeezing him tight. He closed his eyes and buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair, inhaling the clean scent. He savored the physical contact between them, because regardless of his feelings, it felt right to be this close to him after being unable to do this for nearly three days. They stayed like that, unmoving, just enjoying being in each other’s arms, for a long time. 

Eventually, John had to break the silence. He rested his cheek on top of Sherlock’s curls, and closed his eyes before quietly speaking. “Are we ever going to talk about this?”

“I’d rather not, if you didn’t mind.”

“We have to talk about it, Sherlock,” John sighed and thought back to what Sherlock had said two days previous. “I’m not your keeper, I know that and I never meant to act like one. I just— do you understand where I’m coming from at all?”

“No.”

John could feel the frustration building in him. Sherlock was still closed off to him, and showing no signs that he was going to change that, to be able to have a conversation. John decided to continue anyway. “When we started this, when _I_ started this, I did it because I wanted to share it with you. I didn’t want it on my own, I still don’t.” Sherlock remained silent. “I guess I just thought that it was something we would always do together, the whole process, everything. I wanted every part of it with you Sherlock, the hunt, the adrenaline, everything, not just the kill. I don’t want it without you and I guess I had hoped that you wouldn’t want it without me.”

“I killed someone.” Sherlock spoke calmly, with no inflections in his voice to give away how he felt about the matter. 

John was stunned. “W-what?”

“Yesterday. I killed someone,” he replied matter-of-factly. 

John didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, but shut it again when he couldn’t think of anything worth saying. His arms fell away from where he was holding Sherlock, slumping to the sofa cushions. He was in shock. 

“I just— I needed it,” Sherlock began to explain, still leaning back against John’s chest even though John wasn’t keeping him there anymore. “After what happened with us the other day, I needed it.”

John gently nudged Sherlock up into a sitting position, still unable to say anything. He sat for a moment, unsure of himself. He scrubbed his hands over his face and then got up and went into the kitchen to try and clear his head a little. 

“John?” Sherlock asked. There was no apology in his tone however. He was merely trying to gauge how John would receive this information. John, with his back turned to Sherlock as he walked to the kitchen, held up a hand to try and silence the other man as he processed what he had been told.

Sherlock had killed without him. Last night had been hard enough, but this? John didn’t know how to handle this at all. The killing was _theirs_. It’s what had started this, their bond, everything. And now it was all a mess and John didn’t know what to do. So he began to make tea with shaking hands. He braced his hands against the countertop, leaning against them with his head hanging down, breathing heavily. He heard Sherlock come into the kitchen and hover in the doorway. “Things were great with us, Sherlock. What happened?”

“God, I just needed to be my own person for once! I needed the kill without you, I wanted every part of it for myself. I don’t— I need to be _me_ again and I can’t do that with you always at my heels, insisting that we do everything together. It’s suffocating, and I needed to just be me again, I haven’t been me in a long time, John, long before we even met. The only way I knew how to fix that was with my own kill.“

“And where does that leave us?” His voice sounded choked. The kettle was boiling but John didn’t notice, too focused on trying to keep breathing.

“I don’t know how to be accountable to anyone, and I don’t like having it be expected of me. I don’t have to ask for your permission to something!”

“Sherlock, I let you do everything you want! And it’s not even a question of me letting you, I don’t _let_ you. You just do it because you’re your own fucking person and I’m not in charge of you. But _this_! This is the one thing, Sherlock, the _one_ thing. I didn’t even ask you to stop, I don’t want to stop, I just wanted us to do it together!”

“But what if I don’t want to do it together anymore?” Sherlock shouted. 

“We _bonded_ , Sherlock!” John threw a mug against the wall, shattering a second mug in as many days. He rounded on Sherlock, invading his space. “Being away from you for five fucking minutes utterly destroys me and now you— We fucking bound our lives together!” he growled. “You knew more than I did what that meant. You _wanted_ it! And now you don’t like it, don’t like what it makes you feel, so now you just want to back out?”

“I never thought it would actually happen though! I thought I would teach you to control it and you would leave, and I was fine with that.”

“Is that what you want me to do? Leave? Killing and being alone is more important to you?”

“No— I just don’t want all of these pointless fucking rules! I have enough control over my life taken away from me from the Council and Mycroft, I don’t want you dogging my behavior and trying to keep me in line as well. I’m over two hundred years old, John— you don’t need to treat me like a child! You’re acting like a fucking nanny! I don’t need you!”

John punched him. He couldn’t handle the conversation any longer so he punched him. Sherlock felt his fangs extend as he recovered from the blow. He tasted blood in his mouth from where John’s fist had connected with the side of his face. He turned back to stare hard at John, fury in his eyes, before launching himself at the man before him. He slammed John hard into the wall before delivering a few of his own punches to John’s body.

John finally deflected one of the blows and then sank his fangs into Sherlock’s shoulder, tearing at the flesh. Sherlock grabbed the scruff of his neck and threw him away, into the hallway. John stumbled but recovered quickly, throwing himself back at Sherlock, punching his face again. Sherlock ducked, before John could land another hit, and rammed his shoulders into John’s stomach, forcing them both to the ground. He then sunk his own fangs into John’s belly, blood spilling into his mouth. John shouted in pain, grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair, and pulled him off, and flipped him over onto his back before scrambling to his feet again. 

He was ready for Sherlock’s attack this time, easily dodging the blow as Sherlock flew at John once again, using the man’s momentum to slam him into the wall. John latched himself onto Sherlock’s shoulder, biting the other side, sinking his teeth in deeply. He pinned Sherlock against the wall with his whole body, holding his wrists on either side of his head. Sherlock growled in frustration and struggled to get away, but it only made John release his shoulder in favor of biting into his neck right where the pulse point would be if he had one. 

Sherlock’s growls of frustration quickly became moans as he felt the sensual ecstasy of his blood draining away into John. “John,” he breathed, no longer struggling to get away from him, but rather to try and get at John’s blood in return. “Let me taste you, I need you.” John released Sherlock’s hands, which immediately tried to wrap around him, but his own hands bunched into Sherlock’s shirt and held him at arm’s distance. 

Sherlock looked wrecked and desperate for John. Panting heavily, fangs extended, blood smeared all over his mouth, hair standing at odd angles, and bruises forming on his cheek; John had never seen the man look more beautiful. He pulled Sherlock towards him into a bruising, biting kiss, which Sherlock, groaning, responded to immediately. 

He roughly walked Sherlock backwards through the hallway, hands still clenched in his shirt, mouths fighting for dominance with bruising kisses and sharp, stinging bites. Once they reached their room, John slammed the door and shoved Sherlock roughly against it, latching onto the large wound in his neck once more. Sherlock groaned before sinking his own teeth into the column of John's neck, clutching tighter to his body at the taste of blood. He roughly pushed John away from him and toward their bed. He threw John down on the mattress. John darted out a hand to grab Sherlock's wrist and yanked him down on top of him right before they started to tear at each other's clothes and each other's flesh. 

***

Their bodies were sated, but their minds were not. They lay side by side, both staring up at the ceiling, bodies covered in each others blood and semen, waiting for wounds, both physical and psychological, to heal. Neither man could sleep, laying there silently as minutes and hours ticked by. 

“How do we fix this?” John asked tentatively, breaking the silence as the first faint lights of dawn approached. Sherlock didn’t have an answer for him. After a few moments he gently nudged John until the man complied and rolled on his side so that he could press his body flush against John's back. He wove their fingers together and held them tight against John’s heart as he burrowed his nose into sandy hair.

The silence was thick and loud as John stared into the fading darkness of their room. He clenched his eyes shut and squeezed Sherlock’s hand tightly. “I love you,” he whispered, the words sounding slightly hollow.

Sherlock tightened his hold on John’s body, and entwined their legs together. He breathed “I’m sorry” into the back of John’s neck. John didn’t know if he was sorry for the fight or if he was sorry that John loved him.

Sherlock didn’t know either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I think there's only going to be a few more chapters. I just need to nail down an outline for it to see if it's possible to wrap it all up shortly. My goal is to get it finished by November so I can focus on my novel for NaNoWriMo! So you might see a final chapter count soon...


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading!

When John woke a few hours later, Sherlock was pulling on his clothes, preparing to leave the flat again.

“Where are you going?” John asked despondently, staring at the ceiling.

“Out,” Sherlock replied. “I need to think.” John sighed but didn’t say anything, just continued to stare, not looking at Sherlock. He was a little startled when he noticed Sherlock standing over him to press a kiss to his forehead. Then, without another word, he left. 

John stayed in bed for an hour before he heard movement in the flat. He didn’t think that Sherlock would be back so soon, so it could only be Mycroft. He dragged himself out of bed, pulled on jeans and a jumper, and went out to meet him. He found that Mycroft was busying himself making tea for the two of them. John didn’t think he had ever seen the man make tea in all his years of knowing the man. Mycroft nodded at him when he entered the kitchen, but didn’t say a word. When the tea was done brewing in the pot, he poured a cup for John, adding a splash of milk to it, just the way John liked it. John took a sip; it as perfect. After Mycroft fixed his own cup, he moved to the sitting room. John remained standing in the doorway between the two rooms.

“You’re losing him, aren’t you?” Mycroft asked as he sat in an armchair. He sounded sincere, much to John’s surprise.

“Yes,” John affirmed, looking down into his steaming cup of tea. For once, he didn’t jump to the defensive with Mycroft. He could tell the man wanted to help, to fix what was happening, before it got even worse and he lost Sherlock forever.

“I hate to say it, John, but I warned you this would happen if he got too close to this. And instead of heeding my words, you went and encouraged it.”

“I know.” John didn’t have anything to say in his defense. This was his fault and he knew it. Mycroft had indeed warned him that this was Sherlock’s addiction, but he didn’t listen. He had been blinded by his own desires, not caring about what was best for Sherlock. “Is there no hope that he can control himself in this?”

“What does the evidence say?” John sighed. Mycroft was right. The killing needed to stop. The fresh blood needed to stop.

He took a calming sip of his tea. “How do I fix this?”

“The day after your turn, I gave Sherlock a key to a small house in the country that I own. I had intended for him to go there to try and reign you in. You were out of control and I didn’t want you dragging Sherlock along with you. I had hoped that he would listen to me just this once, but you know him. He digs his heels in, and now look at what has happened.”

“You think going there for awhile will help?”

“It should. There are too many humans around here. It’s too easy for him to find one whose disappearance will escape the watchful eye of the Council. In the country, everyone knows everyone. Disappearances are noticed, and Sherlock knows this. You just need to keep him there.”

“And how do I do that?”

“He will always go where you are, John. He loves you.”

“No,” John shook his head. “I don’t think he does.”

“Of course he does,” Mycroft pressed. “He might not have said it, he might not even be aware that what he’s feeling is love, but he _does_ love you. In over two hundred years, John, _you_ were the only one who made him try to be better, to try and control himself, the only one he could tolerate in this world. That means something. He bonded with you and that is something he has never even considered with anyone else, not even for a moment.”

“He said he didn’t want to be together anymore,” John said quietly. 

“Did he though? Bonding is not something that vampires, let alone Sherlock, take lightly. You have felt what it does. Sherlock was more than aware of what the process would do and make him feel. He did it because he wanted you, John.”

“Okay, but now? He doesn’t seem to want it, want me anymore.”

“That’s because his addiction is taking over. You need to pull him away from it. Bring him back. It will be hard, but if anyone can do it, you can. In fact, I think you’re the only person who can help him now.

***

Sherlock had spent the entire day just walking the streets of London. Night was beginning to fall, people were bustling about on their way to meet friends for dinner or drinks. He knew that his addictions were upon him again, starting to consuming him and every facet of his life, but he didn’t want to stop. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. He was being careful, still choosing his kills carefully. 

John would ask him to stop soon. Probably the moment he stepped foot into their flat. John needed him, the bonding saw to that, but they both knew it wasn’t working this way. Could he stop? For John? Yes. He could. He was in control of himself. He had stopped before, he could obviously do it again. 

Just one more. He would stop after one more kill. He could hear Mycroft’s voice in the back of his mind saying _“It’s always going to be ‘one more time,’ isn’t it?”_ He shook his head back and forth as though he could force the voice out of his head that way. It was different this time. He didn’t have a reason to stop the first time. He had killed for years before it got the Council’s attention, he was deeper into it than he was this time, and now he had a reason to stop. He had John. Just one more kill, and he would be fine. Just one more to get it out of his system, a cathartic release to end this. He was supposed to be taking care of John as the one who turned him, and he wasn’t doing that anymore. He was taking care of himself while John went by the wayside, forgotten.

Just one more.

***

Sherlock stalked through the club, the music thumping loudly, vibrating his whole body. There were bodies everywhere, dancing, grinding against one another, intoxicated from alcohol or drugs, completely unaware of the predator amongst them. He felt powerful. It wouldn’t be long before the blood of one of them was flowing down his throat, warming him, bringing his heart to life again as their own slowed and then stopped forever.

He finally spotted her. Young, all family long gone, addict, looking for her next fix as it had been a couple of days since her last hit. She was itching for it, desperate, knowing that withdrawal was going to be coming soon. She would come with him easily to a more secluded alleyway a few blocks down. She was standing close to the bar in the hopes that someone would buy her a drink, looking a bit haggard, which meant that no one would, but she didn’t want to spend any money she had on alcohol when she could spend that money on cocaine. Sherlock made his way across the room to her. Her back was now turned to him as she attempted to flirt with a clearly disinterested man who was waiting for the bartender to make his drinks. Sherlock sidled up behind the woman, placed a hand on her arm to get her attention, and then murmured in her ear, just loud enough to be heard over the music, “I have what you’re really looking for.” 

She turned around, and looked him over. “What am I looking for?” she asked a touch suspiciously. Rightfully so, Sherlock thought.

He smirked and leaned over once again, stopping when his mouth was right by her ear, “Cocaine.” When he pulled back again, she no longer looked suspicious. She met his eyes and looked at him for a moment before nodding in agreement. He jerked his head back to indicate that she should follow him, which she willingly did, not questioning him at all when he lead her out of the club and down a few streets. 

When he felt they were secluded enough, with no one passing by the alley they were in, he turned on her, fangs extended, and sunk them into her neck. She screamed and tried to push Sherlock away, but he held her, his grip strong. She continued to cry out so Sherlock pulled away and caught her gaze. “Do not scream anymore. You are fine. This doesn’t hurt,” he commanded, forcing the thoughts into her own mind. She nodded infinitesimally while Sherlock returned his attention back to the blood oozing down the pale skin of her neck. Soon, her legs gave out, weak from the blood loss, so Sherlock guided her body to the ground, mouth never leaving the wound. She slipped into unconsciousness shortly after as Sherlock continued to drink her life away. 

“Freeze!” shouted a voice behind him, as he heard the small sound of the safety of a handgun being clicked off. Sherlock did indeed freeze as commanded. He was kneeling over a freshly dead woman, her blood wet on his lips. The man behind him was obviously police, the intonation in his voice made that much clear. He had never been caught before, not like this. Least of all by some pitiful human. 

“Stand up and turn around slowly, hands above your head,” the voice instructed. Sherlock, as surreptitiously as he could, wiped his sleeve across his mouth to clear off the blood, before raising his hands up by his head and rose to his feet. He slowly turned after one more quick glance at the woman beneath him, and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. His eyes rose a bit more to appraise the man holding the weapon, and felt shock was over him, as his eyes met Greg Lestrade’s eyes, expression dumbfounded as he looked upon the man he had thought was dead for the past four years.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I decided to add one more chapter to my planned 20. Don't know how long they'll be, but there are now 21 chapters. So.... we'll see what happens! 
> 
> Again, as always, thank you for reading! I love all of the comments you leave, even if I don't respond to all of them. I read all of them though and die from happiness over how lovely you all are.

Lestrade was frozen. Sherlock’s arms will still placed above his head, staring straight at Lestrade wondering what was going to come next. The gun was still pointed at his core, but he noted that the DI’s grip had loosened a bit from the shock.

“You’re—“ Lestrade started, but was unable to say more than that.

“Alive, yes.” Satisfied that Lestrade wasn’t planning on shooting him immediately, he lowered his hands and turned his back to his old friend. He clenched his eyes shut, silently cursing himself for being so careless. He hadn’t even bothered to ensure that the woman wouldn’t scream he was so desperate for the kill. He had been blinded by his need and now Lestrade of all people had caught him. 

Lestrade had lowered his gun but was still staring at Sherlock like a deer in headlights. Stunned beyond belief that a man he had seen die four years ago was standing in front of him alive and well. “How are you alive? You were— you were dead, Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed, suddenly coming out of his shock. He stepped forward and threw his arms around his old friend, squeezing him tightly. Sherlock didn’t quite know how to respond. He never expected this level of friendly affection from Lestrade. He knew that they had been more than just colleagues, that they respected each other greatly, but the embrace will still unexpected. He lifted his arms and placed them on Lestrade’s back, but couldn’t quite return the hug. 

“It’s a… long story,” Sherlock responded lamely. “Too long to go into.”

“Does John know? Do you even know where John is? He— I don’t know what happened to him. He just sort of disappeared awhile ago. Tried tracking him down but… he’s just gone.” Mycroft’s doing, of course. Though he was loathe to admit it, having a brother in such a powerful position within the Council and human government did have its occasional perks. He and John had been able to live in London for a year without being detected by those who knew them, and it was all down to Mycroft. But even Mycroft couldn’t get him out of this. “The poor man was a wreck after you— died, I guess isn’t the right word anymore. What happened? Why did you do it?” 

“John knows. And he’s fine. He’s been with me.” He evaded the harder question, the why of it all. He didn’t quite know to lie about that one on the spot and try and remain convincing. 

“Oh thank God,” sighed Lestrade. “You know me. My line of work tends to have me thinking the worst. I’m glad he’s alright. Is he here in London then?”

Sherlock shook his head to try and clear his mind, to shake away how paralyzed he felt. “He, um— no. No, a case. A case brought me to London. Here, specifically.” He turned around to stalk back to the dead woman’s body, lying cold, temporarily forgotten by Lestrade. “She was attacked. Obviously,” the latter part muttered to himself. “I’ve been tracking a man throughout the country.” The lie was starting to flow from his mouth. He didn’t even know precisely what he was saying, as long as Lestrade believed him, and it appeared that he did, that was all that mattered. “I caught up with him tonight. I trailed him to a night club, looking for a new victim. I temporarily lost sight of him in the crowd. Next thing I know is I see him leaving, with her trailing behind him. I was too late. I found them after it was too late for her, but I-I did my best to try and save her. She was still alive when I got here but he bolted, leaving her, and I tried to— but it just wasn’t enough.”

Lestrade listened to the lie, absorbing every word, before nodding. “You did your best, Sherlock. Don’t blame yourself for this. So who is this bastard? He must be terrible to have Sherlock Holmes trailing after him for so long. We can get Scotland Yard on this. He’s in London, so we should act quickly—“

“No!” Sherlock all but exclaimed. It was a little too emphatic, but Lestrade didn’t seem phased.

“I know, Sherlock. You think the Yard is staffed by unobservant idiots, but we have resources. You might as well use them—“   
“Mycroft,” Sherlock uttered quickly. “I’ve been working for him. John and I have been working for him. We have all the resources we need.”

“Okay, but I can’t just let this go, Sherlock. There’s a body now. In London. I can’t just secret this away and never think of it again. There’s a killer out there and if you’ll remember, it’s my job to stop them.” Lestrade pulled out his mobile and dialed 999. He gave his name, badge number, their location, and a brief overview of the scene. “Officers will be here shortly.” He pocketed the mobile before looking back at Sherlock, who had gone even more pallid than Lestrade would have ever thought possible. “I assume you need to stay dead for all intents and purposes.”

Sherlock nodded, grateful for the man’s perception. “It was unintentional to be revealed to you like this… It could be very dangerous for you if you know I’m alive. I can’t go into it, but just— don’t tell anyone that you saw me. Please.” That was not a lie at all this time. If the Council caught word that someone from Sherlock’s old life knew he was alive and well there would be consequences. Not only for Sherlock, but there would be some sort of action taken against Lestrade. Secrecy was worth everything to vampires and they wouldn’t let it be compromised.

“I won’t, Sherlock. Of course not, you can trust me.” The DI huffed out a deep breath. “Geez, I find out your alive and you already have to leave again, just a few minutes later.” He pulled Sherlock back into a hug and this time Sherlock found it in himself to return it. He had to admit to himself that it was good to see Lestrade, even if their meeting was all too brief. He respected the human immensely and he never truly realized until that moment, how sorry he was that he couldn’t have the man in his life anymore. Lestrade pulled away after a moment. “Sorry, you should go. They’ll be here any minute now. I shouldn’t have called so soon like that.”

“You were just doing your job.” Sherlock placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Thank you. Try to keep this as quiet as you can. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from Mycroft regarding it very soon.”

Lestrade nodded. “Of course.” Sherlock turned to leave before Lestrade called his name, causing him to face him one last time. “It was amazing seeing you again. I’m glad you’re alive and that you have John with you.”

Sherlock nodded, a look of thanks crossing his features, before quickly retreating into the darkness and back to John.

***

Sherlock burst into the flat in a panic. He had well and truly fucked up. He didn’t know how to fix this at all. The council would no doubt catch word of this. Mycroft couldn’t cover this one up. A human had caught him and he had let the man walk away. Of course he couldn’t kill Lestrade. Lestrade didn’t even know what he had seen, but the Council wouldn’t care. Mycroft could protect Lestrade, no doubt, not to mention the man’s prominent position within the human society. His disappearance would be noticed, so the Council would listen to Mycroft in this matter. Sherlock, on the other hand, was in true danger now.

“John!” he shouted, the second he was in the flat. He walked frantically through the rooms, looking for the only man he could trust right now in such a serious, dangerous situation. “John!” he shouted again when he got no reply. He finally found John in their bedroom, roughly packing two small bags, meant for traveling light. Sherlock froze, not knowing how to interpret the scene before him. “John?” he said tentatively, confusion plain in his tone.

John turned to meet his gaze, looking hard, before turning back to the wardrobe to throw a few more of his shirts into one of the bags. 

“You’re…” Sherlock hesitated. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” John said simply, without emotion. Sherlock’s knees almost gave way. He grasped the door frame to hold himself up. He couldn’t lose John. They bonded. He couldn’t leave, he couldn’t. He needs John more than ever now and he’s leaving. 

“John, no,” he trembled, “Please don’t do this, John, please.” He continued to plead, dropping to his knees in front of John, grasping at the man, burying his face in his stomach. John didn’t say a word. “I need you, John. Please, I know what I said, but I need you, I’ve always needed you, please don’t go.” 

John stroked a hand through Sherlock’s curls, causing the other man to look up at him with hopeful eyes. John put his hand in his pocket, extracted an object then placed it in Sherlock’s hand. A key. The key to the cottage in the country. Sherlock looked up at him in confusion. “This is where I’m going, Sherlock,” John explained. “You can come with me, but this has to stop. I’m losing you and the only way I know how to fix it is to stop the killing. You warned me before everything happened, and I didn’t listen. This is my fault, I wasn’t strong enough. But now, I have to ask you to be strong and stop all of this.”

“Yes!” Sherlock gasped. “Yes, John, anything. Anything, John, just please don’t leave me.”

John dropped to his knees, framed Sherlock’s face with his hands, and pulled him in for a gentle kiss. “Thank you,” he breathed in relief. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” He wrapped his arms around the other man and held on, unwilling to ever let go again.

***

Eventually the did let go, but only so they could grab the bags John had packed for them. With the bags slung over their shoulders, Sherlock drew John back in, pouring every emotion he had into the embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into John’s hair. John didn’t reply, just held Sherlock tightly to communicate that he had forgiven him. 

When they made their way to the sitting room to gather a few scattered items they wanted to bring, they were met by Mycroft, wearing a very grave expression on his face. Sherlock froze beside John when he saw his brother. He wasn’t there to see them off or offer them a car to get to the country. The Council had sent him. John noticed the sudden change in disposition in Sherlock and knew it was more than just his brother’s presence. “Sherlock?” he queried. 

Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft said a word in reply. Sherlock leaned against the wall, slowly sliding down to the floor in defeat. John knelt in front of him, grabbed his face and forced the man to meet his eyes. “Sherlock,” he pressed. “What is going on?” Sherlock could tell from John’s tone that he had an idea of what was happening but couldn’t believe it, not until he had confirmation. Sherlock’s eyes slid closed as he whispered, “I’m so sorry, John.” 

John collapsed into Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and murmured “No, no no” over and over again into Sherlock’s neck.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock was standing in a large room that was luxuriously decorated with large rugs, leather furniture, and a grand fireplace where a blazing fire was currently crackling happily. The room was warm and comfortable; a direct contrast to how Sherlock felt. He had been waiting in that room for hours, waiting to hear the verdict the Council decided on. He knew it was only taking this long because Mycroft would be arguing on his behalf. His brother was always very persuasive, but Sherlock didn’t think that even Mycroft would be able to talk his way out of this situation. 

He sipped from a glass of scotch, out of the need to do something more than anything. Escaping was futile, of course. Even if it didn’t look like he was being held captive, the moment he stepped out of the room, his life would be forfeit. All he could do was wait and hope that he would be able to see John one last time. 

Two hundred years was a long time to live. He had never had to face mortality. He had been young and healthy when he became a vampire, and of course with that came immortality. He knew he wasn’t invincible, but the thought of death had never plagued him. He had always just been alive. But now things were different. He had John. He wasn’t just merely alive anymore, he had someone to be alive _with_. And he had thrown it all away, made mistake after mistake even though he knew exactly what he was doing, and now John was going to pay the price. When he was dead, he would just be dead. John would be the one who would have to suffer, who would have to deal with losing someone he had bonded with. He had heard that the feeling was indescribably painful. Many who suffered such a loss chose to end their own lives instead of living with such pain. The thought of John going through that because he had been so foolish was unbearable. 

He threw his glass against the wall in utter frustration. It shattered, glass flying everywhere, the brown liquid dripping down the rich red walls. He threw himself into a chair by the fire and cradled his head in his hands. He had utterly ruined John and he would never forgive himself for it. He can’t help but think that John would have been better off if Sherlock had allowed him to die in that alleyway so long ago. He would have saved the man from all of the pain that he had caused him and was going to continue to cause even after his death. 

Eventually Sherlock calmed enough to sit back into a sofa and stare into the fire, numb to everything. He didn’t want to feel anything anymore. He didn’t know how long he was sitting there, but next thing he knew, John was sitting next to him and pulling him into his arms. They silently situated themselves so that they were lying stretched out on the leather sofa with Sherlock half on top of John. They clung to each other, each knowing that this would be goodbye. They were both quiet for a long time, until Sherlock finally spoke. 

“Lestrade is going to be alright, correct?” John of course knew everything that had happened by now.

John ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp gently. “Yes. He called Mycroft after you left him, to warn him that you needed to be more careful if you were going to remain dead. That’s how the Council found out, of course. Mycroft assured them that Lestrade wouldn’t be any trouble though and that he didn’t know anything. They’re keeping an eye on him, but they have no plans on taking action against him.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock apologized, burying his face into John’s neck. “I’m so, so sorry.” Sherlock didn’t think he would ever be able to apologize enough, even if he got out of this situation alive. 

“Shhh,” John soothed, pressing his face into Sherlock’s hair, stroking his hands up and down the man’s back. “It’s alright. I’m the one who should be sorry.” They stayed there, lying in each other’s arms for a long time, before John finally spoke again. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he murmured quietly. Sherlock pushed himself up slightly so that he could look at John’s face. Seeing the serious expression there, he sat up all the way so that he could give the man his full attention. “They’re letting you go, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion. That didn’t make any sense. “What do you mean? Why?”

“They’re letting you go. I-I um—“ John couldn’t get the words out, but Sherlock understood all the same. 

“You took my place…” he breathed. “No, no John, no!” He clung onto John’s body. A world without John was unacceptable. He couldn’t even fathom such a thing. He had lived without John for nearly two hundred years but he had no idea how the world would keep turning if John Watson wasn’t a part of it. “Why would you do that?”

“Mycroft, he—“

“Bastard!” Sherlock threw himself up off the sofa and began to pace in front of the fire, furious. “I’ll fucking kill him!”

“Sherlock!” John shouted to get the attention of the other man. “Would you please just listen?” Sherlock stopped yelling but didn’t stop his pacing. “Mycroft came to me and explained everything. He said that he wouldn’t be able to save you this time, but that _I_ could. I could take responsibility for everything, claim that it was me killing all those people, and not you, and that you would be allowed to live. I’m young, a new vampire. The Council will consider that in their evaluation of the situation and if Mycroft speaks on my behalf, there’s a chance that they will let me live. I have a better chance of coming out of this alive than you do, and I am more than willing to take that chance if it means that you get to go on living.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing and just stared at John. The man was so good and selfless, and now he was willing to sacrifice himself for Sherlock’s sake. He had made such unforgivable mistakes and yet John was still willing to protect him from anything. “And even if I’m not allowed to live,” John continued, “I can’t… I can’t watch you die again. I’m nothing without you, Sherlock. I’m a wreck of a person when you aren’t with me and I can’t even imagine how much worse it would be now.” 

Sherlock knelt in front of John, who was still sitting on the sofa. He pulled John forward so that their foreheads were resting against each other. “I can’t let you do this, John. This is _my_ fault, not yours. I’m the one who got caught, who kept killing even when I knew it was too much. John if you die—“ he choked on his words, unable to continue. 

“It’s already done. And it’s as much my fault as it is yours,” John assured, stroking Sherlock’s neck.

“I can’t go on living without you, John. I don’t know how,” Sherlock whispered.

“You did it for a long time before I came along, Sherlock. Before I was even alive. You’ll remember how.”

“I’m going to fucking kill my brother,” Sherlock growled. 

“Just wait until he’s done talking to the Council, alright?” John smirked, though it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it. “There’s a chance he’ll get me out of this. He did it with you, didn’t he?”

“Fine. But after that, I’m going to kill him.” John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, then pulled him back into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, John....
> 
> Just one more chapter after this! Thanks for reading!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter everyone! Thanks for reading!

Soon, Mycroft came into the room, to find Sherlock and John wrapped around each other on the sofa. Sherlock jolted up the second he noticed his brother’s presence, John sitting up just moments after. Mycroft met his brother’s eyes, smiled, and nodded once. Sherlock shouted in delight and pulled John into his arms. He was going to be alright. The Council was sparing his life. John laughed heartily, squeezing Sherlock’s body against him. Eventually they pulled apart and Sherlock surprised them all by walking over to Mycroft and pulling him into a hug as well. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled quietly, as Mycroft returned the embrace. They pulled apart quickly, unaccustomed to such affection. Then Sherlock hesitated, looked his brother in the eye once more, and then drew back his fist and punched his brother as hard as he could. “Don’t you _ever_ gamble with John’s life like that again,” he hissed.

Mycroft recovered quickly, but massaged his jaw where the blow had landed. “Don’t give me reason to need to, brother, and I won’t have to,” he quipped.

Sherlock glared, but let the comment slide. “So what happens now? They obviously aren’t just going to let John go even if they are allowing him to live.”

“No,” Mycroft sighed. “They aren’t. John is going to remain here for an undisclosed amount of time. The Council wants to train him properly, make sure he isn’t a threat to our secrecy, before letting him go again. They were wary enough when they allowed him to be put in your charge,” John ruffled at bit at the patronizing words but didn’t say anything, “but now with everything that has happened, they refuse to let him leave until they are confident that he can feed from a human without killing. And they will be watching both of you more closely than ever now, so no more slip ups, Sherlock.” He looked pointedly at his brother. “We were extremely lucky. I wasn’t sure the plan was going to work, but it did. You cannot afford to waste this opportunity.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock vowed. 

“Where is Sherlock going to be?” John asked hesitantly.

“The cottage,” Mycroft answered succinctly. 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock glared. “If you think for one moment that I’m going there without John—“

“You _will_ go without John and you will stay there. John is to remain here with the Council, and you are to remain in the country under my supervision. We are not blowing this chance Sherlock and if not seeing John while he’s here is what the Council demands of the two of you, it is what you will do.”

“What?” Sherlock was suddenly furious again. “I can’t see him at all? They can’t keep us apart, Mycroft! We’ve _bonded!_ ” he seethed. 

“They can and they will,” Mycroft said pointedly. “They don’t want either of you around each other, and I’m sorry, but I am forced to agree with them. You’re relationship was bordering on destructive. It was far from healthy and it will do you both some good to be away from each other. It’s the only way for both of you to learn what you almost lost here. Now stop throwing a fit, Sherlock, and be thankful that John is even being allowed to live.”

“How long do you think they will keep me here?” John interjected before Sherlock could start shouting again. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm, in an attempt to steady him. 

“It is hard to say. At least a year, likely longer. They can leave nothing to chance.”

John could only somberly nod. A year without Sherlock. He found five minutes of not being in the man’s presence to be difficult. He didn’t know how he would handle a whole year without seeing him. Though with the alternative in mind, this was definitely preferable. Both he and Sherlock would be alive and safe.

“What’s going to happen to _us_?” John asked Sherlock. 

Sherlock could only shake his head. He had never heard to bonded vampires being separated for so long. Usually even the Council was understanding about such things and wouldn’t keep them apart for such a long period of time without even allowing them occasional visits. 

“They couldn’t just let this go, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed. “There are repercussions to what you two have done. You need to understand there seriousness of what has happened, to ensure that it won’t happen again. This is a serious consequence and I can only hope that you will see it for what it is and learn from it.”

John gripped Sherlock’s hand and held on tightly, knowing it would be a long time before he would be able to again.

***

Sherlock was holed up in the cottage, running an experiment on mold and acid. It had been 847 days since he had last seen John. Over two years. He felt both empty and overrun after so long without him. At the year mark, Sherlock had gotten overly excited, anticipating John’s return. He had even contacted Mycroft to find out which day he could expect him. When his brother had regrettably informed him that the Council was not anticipating releasing John anytime soon, Sherlock had shouted furious insults directed both at Mycroft and the Council, had stormed his way into the building, demanding to see John, before he was forcefully escorted out and forbidden from returning less he want to suffer even more serious consequences. Knowing that he was already in enough trouble with the Council, he had reluctantly obeyed, not wanting to cause John anymore harm. 

After that, Sherlock had slowly begun to retreat into himself. He stopped taking care of himself, only drinking a bag of blood every few weeks, then forgetting about it until he was so weak he could barely make it to the refrigerator where he stored it. Mycroft had implored him to take better care, if not for himself, than for John’s sake when the man finally returned. Sherlock, lying stretched out n the sofa, could only turn his back on his brother, facing the back cushions and curl in on himself. Part of him had wished for a long time that he hadn’t bonded with John, if only to save them both the pain of what they were going through during this separation. After a few months dismissed the wish as a hideously stupid one. Even the pain of being separated from John was better than never having had what they had shared, the intense connection between them. That was worth everything to him. 

Soon after that, Sherlock had stopped sulking, knowing it wasn’t helping anything. He thought he should at least be productive with his time while he had to wait for John. He had begun his experiments again, and had essentially refused to leave the cottage for any reason at all, even for supplies. He had coerced Mycroft to have anything he might need for his experiments delivered to him along with the bags of blood he was supplied with every two weeks. He promised his brother that he would regularly eat if he would have everything delivered to him, and Mycroft had happily complied. Sherlock became so focused, lost in the science, that it became all he could focus on. He barely noticed when his deliveries were made. He only surfaced long enough to assess what new items he had and then begin conducting more experiments to occupy every facet of his mind.

He was sitting at the dining table, pouring some corrosive acid over a large sample of mold, when he heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. He didn’t even bother looking up, knowing that it would be some Council crony that appeared every two weeks. Sherlock lost track of time easily so he never really knew when the man would show up, but he always left quickly and tended not to disturb him (the man had learned very quickly not to ask questions regarding the experiments, or to even acknowledge Sherlock at all). The door opened slowly and quietly, but then Sherlock couldn’t hear anything else. There was no further movement, no one walking through to the kitchen to store the blood in the fridge, no large box deposited in the sitting room containing science equipment or questionable organic materials. The silence was more distracting than if the idiot had just spoken to him. He looked up, an annoyed expression on his face, but instead of some low level Council vampire, his eyes found laid upon John for the first time in 847 long days. 

Sherlock was so stunned to see John that he didn’t even notice that his hand had shifted and the acid was now dripping onto the table. John slowly stepped through the doorway and set down his small bag. John’s movement prompted Sherlock to come out of his daze. He hastily set down the beaker of acid, rose to his feet, but them didn’t seem to know what to do with himself anymore. He wanted to run to John, the pull the man into his arms and never let go for anything. But his body couldn’t do it. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to go to the man he hadn’t seen in 847 days. It had never occurred to him that his body might want to reject what it had once been so dependent upon, a drug he had gone through withdrawal from that his body could no longer cope with. He had always assumed that once John had returned, everything would be alright again, that they would fall into each other’s arms, into bed, and be whole again.

“You, um…” John gestured to the table behind Sherlock. “You spilled some acid. It’s eating at the table.” The man could barely look at him, whereas Sherlock could not stop staring. Sherlock looked back, and saw the acid hissing and bubbling away, as it ate a hole through the wood. Sherlock quickly cleaned it up with a rag, disposing of the rag into a plastic bucket that the acid wouldn’t get through. With that done, the two men stood in silence, glancing at each other occasionally before quickly looking away. 

“C-can I get you anything?” Sherlock asked, desperate to break the silence. “Tea? Or blood… You probably want blood. I only have bagged.” He quickly retreated to the kitchen, during his rambling. “Obviously,” he muttered to himself. It’s not as though he would ever keep a human around to feed off of on occasion. “It’s not as good, as you know, but it’s hard to get fresh out here, or so I would think, I haven’t… not since…,” He turned and saw John standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking at him with a melancholy fondness in his eyes. “I barely even drink the bagged blood anymore,” he confessed. “Just enough to keep myself physically able… But I—”

“Tea is fine, Sherlock,” John said quietly. Sherlock put the kettle on and set about pulling out mugs and tea bags. Once the water was ready, he poured it into the mugs, and put one sugar in John’s. He handed the tea to John, their fingers accidentally brushing lightly in the exchange. Both men pulled away as though they had been burned, the mug crashed to the floor, tea and ceramic everywhere. John hesitated, met Sherlock’s eye briefly, then retreated into the sitting room. It seemed John was having the same issue as Sherlock; he wanted to be close to the man he had bonded with, but just couldn’t figure out how to make his body cooperate after so long of an absense. 

Sherlock trailed after John into the sitting room. John was sitting in a chair by the lit fireplace, allowing the heat from the fire to warm his body along with the tea. Sherlock wondered if John had been given tea during the past two years or if he had just been drinking blood when it was allowed to him. The Council wasn’t exactly known for bestowing comforts upon others. His own brief time with the Council, years ago, had been torturously dull and uncomfortable. They only cared about efficiency when it came to rehabilitating rogue vampires; they could not care less if the vampire was comfortable while undergoing the process. He was thankful that Mycroft had been able to get him out after a few months, promising to look after him himself. But two years. That was a long time to live that way and from the way that John was soaking up the warmth of the fire and the tea, his hunched shoulders, his sad eyes, it was clear that the time had taken a toll on the man. 

They sat in silence for hours. Sherlock refilled John’s tea whenever his cup was empty. John would nod at him in thanks, but other than that, they were silent and still. Sherlock had never heard of a bond being broken between vampires. Even the death of one of the pair usually wasn’t enough for the other to even want to touch another vampire, let alone bond with one. But now he feared that that is what had happened to them though. Was their bond broken? It had been so long since they had even spoken to each other, let alone been in each other’s presence. They had survived the separation, but was that an indicator of what had happened? Bonded vampires could barely be away from each other for a few hours, let alone two years. And yet he and John had done it. It had been difficult, yes, but they had managed. They shouldn’t have been able to manage. 

Just the mere thought that their bond might be broken was enough to send Sherlock into a tearful, quiet panic. He tried to mask the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, but John, even after all this time, was still so attuned to Sherlock that he noticed right away. Sherlock growled in frustration at himself, at the contrite look on John’s face and scrubbed his hands over his face roughly to rid himself of the wretched moisture in the corners of his eyes.

“This is idiotic,” he snarled. “And dull. And I won’t stand for it a moment longer.” He was pacing the room now, running his hands through his hair roughly. John sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What’s idiotic and dull?” he queried.

“This silence and tiptoeing around each other and I’ve drank more tea in the past few hours than I have in over 200 years of life,” Sherlock shouted. “That wretched place didn’t destroy us. The past few years didn’t destroy us. I refuse to believe that.” 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I want to, I just can’t— I can’t be near you. I don’t know why, but I can’t.” John swallowed thickly, and turned his gaze down to the empty mug in his hands. He seemed to shrink back in his chair, to make himself smaller as though that would get him further away from the man standing above him. “I don’t even know if I should be here at all,“ he sighed, dejected. 

Sherlock steeled himself then gripped the front of John’s jumper and wrenched him out of his chair. John immediately fought against him, against the touch. It felt foreign to both men, so long had they been deprived of it. Sherlock could feel his body trembling, willing him away from John as he wrapped his arms around the squirming man who was shouting at him to let go, but he fought against it just as hard as John’s body fought to get away. Their bond could not be broken. He refused to believe it. The pain of the past two years will not have been for nothing. He could not have spent so long away from John, waiting for him, to allow his wretched body to win this battle, he wouldn’t let it refuse John. They were one, he just needed to remind them both again. 

John was starting to fight against him even harder now, no longer worried about not hurting Sherlock. He dug his nails into Sherlock’s flesh, jabbing him where he could, growling and growing more wild. Sherlock just clung on with everything he could, too focused on not fleeing to even notice what John was doing to him. He walked forward, pushing John back until they reached a wall against which he pressed John, trapping him between it and Sherlock. Frantic now, John did just what Sherlock had been hoping would happen. He sank his fangs into Sherlock’s shoulder, right through his shirt, trying to tear at the flesh with his teeth, to hurt him, to make him let go, anything to get him to let go. However, a moment after the blood touched John’s lips, the man stopped fighting, stopped trying to get away, and instead roughly pulled Sherlock closer. 

Sherlock continued to ignore what his body was screaming at him, screaming to get away, and let John drink. Just behind John’s ear, Sherlock sunk his own teeth into John’s neck, spilling the blood into his mouth, and just like that, his body stopped fighting to get away from John and fought to get closer. He pressed John into the wall, his entire body flush against the man as he swallowed down John’s blood. John’s hands dragged up and down Sherlock’s back before burying themselves in Sherlock’s hair. He pulled Sherlock away from his neck and rested their foreheads together; both men were panting heavily. Slowly, tentatively, Sherlock ducked his head down, and lightly pressed his blood rimmed lips against John’s.

Their bonding, so many years ago, had been frenzied and lustful and born on blood-soaked sheets; a high coming off a human’s death. It had been teeth and blood and passion. Both men had wanted the bond then, but now they needed it. Yet they didn’t want what they had before. Their bond wasn’t broken, but it was fractured. It needed to be repaired and the two men started to mend it slowly, carefully, kiss by kiss, to create something new, something better.

Soon, their kisses were less cautious, the brushing of lips no longer enough, and became more purposeful and firm. When John finally coaxed Sherlock’s mouth open and brushed their tongues together, Sherlock groaned and wrapped his arms even more tightly around John. They made their way back to the fireplace and kneeled down, enjoying caresses from both hand and mouth. They removed each other’s clothing steadily and unhurriedly. 

Sherlock lied down, pulling John with him, and brought their lips together, wrapping his arms around the man above him, entwining their legs together. They moved with each other, taking their time, focusing on giving each other pleasure. They each occasionally licked at the other’s blood trickling over pale skin, but they didn’t feel the need to spill anymore, to bite and tear at each other. Instead they focused on roaming hands over hot skin, sweaty from the heat of the fire and their movement, fingers threading through hair, and warm, wet kisses to mouths, necks, arms, bellies. 

After what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, when the men were sticky with sweat and blood and their releases, still wrapped around each other. John was resting his head on Sherlock’s chest as Sherlock snagged a pillow from the sofa and maneuvered it under his head. They were quiet for a long time, just resting, enjoying each other’s presence for the first time in 847 long, hard, lonely days. Eventually, Sherlock broke the silence by quietly saying, his voice rough from disuse, “Are we going to be okay?” Even with their bond being healed, he couldn’t forget their past, everything that had happened that had brought them to this point. One evening wasn’t enough to mend the hurts and the mistakes. They tended to make bad choices when it came to each other, the past few years had proven that time and time again. He could only hope that things would be different this time, with their final chance. There could be no more mistakes, they had to stay strong, but Sherlock didn’t think he could be strong if John wasn’t there with him.

John thought for several, long moments, wanting to give a truthful answer, not just the one that they both wanted to hear. When he settled on his answer, his honest answer, he didn’t speak it. Instead he lifted his head to press a soft, loving kiss to the wound healing on Sherlock’s shoulder before he buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand that's all folks! This final chapter ended up being a lot happier than it was originally going to be. But hey, the boys deserve a little happiness don't you think? And they really had to work for it, the poor guys. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to all of my lovely, faithful readers. You are spectacular and thank you for all of your comments which helped shape the story. 
> 
> So yeah. There's my story. Which was originally going to be around 8 chapters... It got away from me for a bit there!
> 
> I have a few more stories rolling around in my head. Don't know when I'll write them, but I do plan on writing them at some point. After November. NaNo starts in just a couple days and I'm not prepared at all! Yikes!
> 
> One more time, THANK YOU to everyone who read this, I love you all, and I love all of your comments. You guys are the best.


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